XV     I 

JLl 


;  SARA   HAD   PREFERRED    TO   WALK." — [Page  71.] 


FOR  THE  MAJOR 


•N'oadette 


BY 

CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "ANNE" 


ILLUSTRA1  Eb1" 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 
1883 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1883,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


*  *"  'Affrights  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  SARA  HAD  PREFERRED   TO  WALK. " Frontispiece. 

' '  '  HAPPY  GIRL, '  INTERPOLATED   SARA. " To  face  p.  S 

"HE  CAME  OFTEN  TO  THEIR  FLOWER  GARDEN."...  "  94 
"THE  GIRL  DREW  HER  MOTHER  MORE  CLOSELY  TO 

HER  SIDE." "  126 

"THE  LAST  LOOK  ON  EARTH." "  144 

"  I  AM  AFRAID,  MAJOR,  THAT  YOU  ARE  GROWING  IN 
DOLENT." "  176 


463174 


FOR  THE  MAJOR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EDGEELEY  the  first  lay  on  the  eastern  flank  of  Chil- 
lawassee  Mountain ;  Edgerley  the  second  six  hundred 
feet  above.  The  first  Edgerley,  being  nearer  the  high 
civilization  of  the  state  capital,  claimed  the  name, 
and  held  it ;  while  the  second  Edgerley  was  obliged 
to  content  itself  with  an  added  "  far."  Far  Edger 
ley  did  not  object  to  its  adjective  so  long  as  it  was 
not  considered  as  applying  especially  to  the  distance 
between  it  and  the  lower  town.  It  was  "  far,"  if  you 
pleased — far  from  cities,  far  from  traffic,  from  Baby 
lon,  from  Zanzibar,  from  the  Pole — but  it  was  not 
"far"  from  Edgerley.  Rather  was  Edgerley  far 
from  it,  and — long  may  she  keep  so  !  Meanwhile 
Edgerley  the  first  prospered,  though  rather  plebeian- 
ly.  She  had  two  thousand  inhabitants,  cheese  facto 
ries,  saw-mills,  and  a  stage  line  across  Black  Mountain 
to  Tuloa,  where  connection  was  made  with  a  second 


2  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

line,  which  went  eastward  to  the  railway.  An  Ed 
gerley  merchant,  therefore,  could  reach  the  capital 
of  his  state  in  fifty-five  hours :  what  could  man  want 
more  ?  The  merchants  were  of  the  opinion  that  they 
wanted  nothing ;  they  fully  appreciated  their  advan 
tages,  and  Edgerley.  But  their  neighbors  on  top  of 
the  mountain,  who  looked  down  upon  them  in  more 
senses  than  one,  did  not  agree  with  them  in  their 
opinion  ;  they  infinitely  preferred  their  own  village, 
though  it  had  no  factories,  no  saw-mills,  no  stage  line 
to  Tuloa,  and  no  necessity  for  one,  and  no  two  thou 
sand  inhabitants — hardly,  indeed,  and  with  stretch 
ing,  a  bare  thousand.  There  would  seem  to  have 
been  little  in  these  lacks  upon  which  to  found  a 
pride,  if  the  matter  had  been  viewed  with  the  eyes 
of  that  spirit  of  progress  which  generally  takes 
charge  of  American  towns ;  but,  so  far  at  least,  the 
Spirit  of  Progress  had  not  climbed  Chillawassee 
Mountain,  and  thus  Far  Edgerley  was  left  to  its 
prejudiced  creed. 

The  creed  was  ancient — both  towns  boasting  an 
ante-Revolutionary  origin — but,  though  ancient,  Mad 
am  Carroll  of  the  Farms  had  been  the  first  to  em 
body  it  in  a  portable  phrase ;  brief  (for  more  words 
would  have  given  too  much  importance  to  the  sub 
ject),  calmly  superior,  as  a  Carroll  phrase  should  be. 
Madam  Carroll  had  remarked  that  Edgerley  seemed 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  3 

to  her  "  commercial."  This  was  excellent.  "  Com 
mercial  !"  Nothing  could  be  better.  Whatever  Far 
Edgerley  was,  it  certainly  was  not  that. 

Madam  Carroll  of  the  Farms,  upon  a  certain  even 
ing  in  May,  1868,  was  sitting  in  her  doorway,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  dull  red  line  of  a  road  winding 
down  the  mountain  opposite.  This  road  was  red  be 
cause  it  ran  through  red  clay  ;  and  a  hopelessly  sticky 
road  it  was,  too,  at  most  seasons  of  the  year,  as  the 
horses  of  the  Tuloa  stage  line  knew  to  their  cost. 
But  the  vehicle  now  coming  through  the  last  fringes 
of  the  firs  was  not  a  stage ;  and  it  was  drawn,  also, 
by  two  stout  rnules  that  possessed  a  tenacity  of  pur 
pose  greater  even  than  that  of  red  clay.  It  was  the 
carriage  of  Major  Carroll  of  the  Farms,  Far  Edger 
ley,  and  at  the  present  moment  it  was  bringing  home 
his  daughter  from  the  western  terminus  of  the  railway. 

A  gentleman's  carriage  drawn  by  mules  might 
have  seemed  something  of  an  anomaly  in  certain 
localities  farther  eastward.  But  not  here.  Even 
Edgerley  regarded  this  possession  of  its  rival  with 
a  respect  which  included  the  mules,  or  rather,  which 
effaced  them  in  the  general  aroma  of  the  whole,  an 
aroma  not  actual  (the  actual  being  that  of  ancient 
leather  not  unacquainted  with  decay),  but  figurative 
— the  aroma  of  an  undoubted  aristocracy.  For  "  the 
equipage,"  as  it  was  called,  had  belonged  to  the  Car- 


4  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

rolls  of  the  Sea  Islands,  who,  in  former  days  of  opu 
lence,  had  been  in  the  habit  of  spending  their  sum 
mers  at  the  Farms.  When  their  distant  cousin,  the 
Major,  bought  the  Farms,  he  bought  the  carriage 
also.  This  was  as  well.  The  Sea  Island  Carrolls 
had  no  longer  any  use  for  a  carriage.  They  had  not 
even  mules  to  draw  it,  and,  as  they  lived  all  the  year 
round  now  upon  one  of  their  Sea  Islands,  whose  only 
road  through  the  waste  of  old  cotton-fields  was  most 
of  the  time  overflowed,  they  had  nothing  to  draw  it 
upon ;  so  the  Major  could  as  well  have  the  benefit 
of  it.  This  carriage  with  its  mules  now  came  into 
sight  on  the  zigzags  of  the  mountain  opposite ;  but 
it  had  still  to  cross  the  lower  valley,  and  climb  Chil- 
lawassee,  and  night  had  fallen  before  the  sound  of 
its  wheels  was  heard  on  the  little  bridge  over  the 
brook  which  crossed  what  was  called  Carroll  Lane, 
the  grassy  avenue  which  led  from  Edgerley  Street 
up  the  long  knoll  to  Carroll  Farms. 

"  Chew  up,  Peter !  chew  up,  then.  Chew !"  Inches, 
the  coachman,  said  to  his  mules:  Inches  wished  to 
approach  the  house  in  good  style.  The  mules,  re 
fusing  to  entertain  this  idea,  came  up  to  the  door  on 
a  slow  walk.  Inches  could,  however,  let  down  the 
steps  with  a  flourish;  and  this  he  proceeded  to  do 
by  the  light  of  the  candle  which  Madam  Carroll 
had  brought  with  her  to  the  piazza.  The  steps  came 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  5 

down  with  a  long  clatter.  And  they  had  clanked  in 
their  imprisonment  all  the  way  from  Tuloa.  But 
no  one  in  Far  Edgerley  would  have  sacrificed  them 
for  such  trifles  as  these;  they  were  considered  to 
impart  an  especial  dignity  to  "  the  equipage"  (which 
was,  indeed,  rather  high-hung).  No  other  carriage 
west  of  the  capital  had  steps  of  this  kind.  It  might 
have  been  added  that  no  other  carriage  east  of  it  had 
them  either.  But  Chillawassee  did  not  know  this, 
and  went  on  contentedly  admiring.  As  to  the  clat 
ter  made  when  the  steps  were  let  down  —  at  the 
church  door,  for  instance,  on  Sunday  mornings — did 
it  not  announce  that  the  Major  and  his  wife  had 
arrived,  that  they  were  about  to  enter?  And  were 
not  people  naturally  glad  to  know  this  in  time? 
They  could  be  all  ready,  then,  to  look. 

Upon  this  occasion  the  tall  girl  who  had  arrived, 
scarcely  touching  the  unfolded  steps,  sprang  lightly 
to  the  ground,  and  clasped  the  waiting  lady  in  her 
arms.  "  Oh,  mamma,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you 
again  !  But  where  is  my  father  ?" 

"  He  felt  very  tired,  Sara,  and  as  it  is  late,  he  has 
gone  to  his  room.  He  left  his  love  for  you.  You 
know  we  expected  you  two  hours  ago." 

"  It  is  but  little  past  ten.  He  must  be  still  awake. 
Could  .1  not  slip  in  for  a  moment,  just  to  speak  to 
him  ?  I  would  not  stay." 


6  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

"  He  has  been  asleep  for  some  time.  It  would  be 
better  not  to  disturb  him,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"  If  he  is  asleep — of  course,"  answered  Sara  Car 
roll.  But  her  tone  was  a  disappointed  one. 

"  You  will  see  him  in  the  morning,"  said  the  elder 
lady,  leading  the  way  within. 

"  But  a  whole  night  to  wait  is  so  long !" 

"You  do  not  intend,  I  presume,  to  pass  this  one 
in  wakef ulness  ?"  said  Madam  Carroll. 

Sara  laughed.     "  Scar,  too,  is  asleep,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes.  But  Scar  you  can  waken,  if  you  like ;  he 
falls  asleep  again  readily.  He  is  in  the  first  room  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs." 

The  girl  flew  off,  coming  back  with  a  bright  face. 
"  Dear  little  fellow  !"  she  said, "  his  hands  and  cheeks 
are  as  soft  as  ever.  I  am  so  glad  that  he  has  not 
grown  into  a  great,  rough  boy.  It  is  a  year  and  a  half 
since  I  have  seen  him,  and  he  seems  exactly  the  same." 

"  He  is  the  same,"  said  Madam  Carroll.  "  He 
does  not  grow." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  replied  Sara,  answer 
ing  stoutly  the  mother's  implied  regret.  And  then 
they  both  laughed. 

Judith  Inches,  sister  of  the  coachman,  now  served 
a  light  repast  for  the  traveller  in  the  dining-room. 
But  when  it  was  over,  the  two  ladies  came  back  to 
the  door-way. 


FOR   THE  MAJOR.  7 

"  For  I  want  to  look  out,"  Sara  said.  "  I  want  to 
be  sure  that  I  am  really  at  home  at  last ;  that  this  is 
Chillawassee,  that  the  Black  Range  is  opposite,  and 
that  there  in  the  west  the  long  line  of  Lonely  Moun 
tain  is  rising  against  the  sky." 

"  As  it  is  dark,  perhaps  you  could  see  them  as  well 
from  a  comfortable  chair  in  the  library,"  suggested 
Madam  Carroll,  smiling. 

"By  no  means.  They  will  reveal  themselves  to 
me;  you  will  see.  I  know  just  where  they  all  ought 
to  be ;  I  made  a  map  from  the  descriptions  in  your 
letters." 

She  had  seated  herself  on  the  door- step,  while 
Madam  Carroll  sat  in  a  low  chair  within.  Outside 
was  a  broad  piazza ;  beyond  it  an  old-fashioned  flower- 
garden  going  down  the  slope  of  the  knoll.  All  the 
earlier  summer  flowers  were  out,  their  presence  made 
known  in  the  warm,  deep  darkness  by  perfume  only, 
save  for  a  faint  glimmer  of  white  where  the  snow 
ball  bushes  stood. 

"  And  so,  as  I  told  you,  I  have  decided  to  give  an 
especial  reception,"  said  Madam  Carroll,  returning  to 
a  subject  begun  in  the  dining-room.  "  I  shall  have 
it  on  Monday ;  from  five  to  eight." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  took  the  trouble,  mamma.  It  is 
pleasure  enough  for  me  simply  to  be  at  home  again." 

"My  receptions  are  seldom  for  pleasure,  I  think," 


8  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

said  Madam  Carroll,  thoughtfully.  "  In  this  case  it 
seemed  proper  to  announce  the  fact  that  you  had  re 
turned  to  us ;  that  Miss  Carroll  would  be  henceforth 
a  member  of  her  father's  household  at  the  Farms." 

"  Happy  girl !"  interpolated  Sara.  She  was  lean 
ing  back  in  the  door-way,  her  hands  clasped  behind 
her  head,  her  eyes  looking  into  the  soft  darkness  of 
the  garden. 

"  This  was,  in  my  opinion,  a  not  unimportant 
event,"  continued  Madam  Carroll.  "And  it  will 
be  so  estimated  in  Far  Edgerley.  There  are,  you 
know,  in  every  society  certain  little  distinctions  and 
—and  differences,  which  should  be  properly  marked ; 
the  home-coming  of  Miss  Carroll  is  one  of  them. 
You  have,  without  doubt,  an  appropriate  dress?" 

"All  my  gowns  are  black,  of  course.  There  is 
one  I  call  best ;  but  even  that  is  severely  plain." 

"  On  the  whole,  you  will  look  well  in  it,"  answered 
Madam  Carroll,  after  a  moment's  consideration  of 
the  figure  in  the  door- way;  "and  it  will  have  the 
added  advantage  of  being  a  contrast.  We  have  few 
contrasts  in  Far  Edgerley,  and,  I  may  say,  no  plain 
ness — no  plainness  whatever.  Rather,  a  superabun 
dance  of  trimming.  The  motive  is  good:  I  should 
be  the  last  to  underrate  it.  But  even  with  the  best 
intentions  you  cannot  always  construct  new  costumes 
from  changes  of  trimming  merely;  there  comes  a 


HAPPY   GIRL,'  INTERPOLATED   SARA." 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  9 

time  when  the  finest  skill  will  not  take  the  place  of 
a  little  fresh  material,  no  matter  how  plain  it  may 
be.  The  Greers,  for  instance,  have  made  over  their 
green  poplins  twice  a  year  now  for  five  years,  and 
have  done  it  well.  But,  after  all,  we  remain  con 
scious  that  they  are  still  the  same  green  poplins. 
Miss  Corinna  Rendlesham,  too,  and  her  sisters,  have 
accomplished  wonders  with  different  combinations 
of  narrow  black  velvet  ribbon  and  fringe  on  their 
black  silks — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  the  material  is 
now  quite  riddled  with  the  old  lines  of  needle-holes 
where  trimmings  formerly  ran.  They  wear  them 
to  church  with  Stella  shawls,"  pursued  the  lady, 
meditatively ;  "  and  to  receptions,  turned  in  at  the 
neck,  with  white  lace." 

"  Do  the  other  people  here  give  receptions  also  ?" 
asked  Sara,  from  the  door-step. 

"  They  would  never  dream  of  it,"  replied  the 
elder  lady,  with  serenity. 

But  was  she  the  elder  ?  No  sign  of  age  was  visi 
ble  in  all  her  little  person  from  head  to  foot.  She 
was  very  small  and  slight.  Her  muslin  gown,  whose 
simple  gathered  waist  was  belted  by  a  ribbon  sash, 
had  a  youthful,  almost  childlike,  aspect,  yet  at  the 
same  time  a  pretty  quaintness  of  its  own,  like  that 
of  an  old-fashioned  miniature.  The  effect  of  this 
young-old  attire  was  increased  by  the  arrangement 

2 


10  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

of  the  hair.  It  was  golden  hair,  even  and  fine,  and 
it  hung  in  curls  all  round  her  head — long  curls  that 
fell  below  the  waist.  These  curls  were  distinct  and 
complete  spirals,  each  one  perfect  in  itself,  not  inter 
twining  with  the  next;  a  round  stick  passed  through 
any  one  of  them  would  not  have  been  visible  from 
bottom  to  top.  "  Now  that  is  what  /  call  a  curl !" 
old  Senator  Ashley  was  wont  to  remark.  But  though 
this  golden  hair  curled  so  definitively  when  it  once 
began  to  curl,  it  lay  smooth  and  straight  as  the  hair  of 
a  nun  over  the  top  of  the  little  head,  and  came  down 
evenly  also  over  the  corners  of  the  forehead,  after 
that  demure  old  fashion  which  made  of  every  lady's 
brow  a  modest  triangle,  unambitious  alike  of  a  too 
intellectual  height  or  a  too  pagan  lowness. 

What  was  it  that  this  little  grande  dame,  with  her 
curls,  her  dress,  and  her  attitudes,  resembled  ?  Some 
persons  upon  seeing  her  would  have  been  haunted 
by  a  half -forgotten  memory,  and  would  at  last  (if 
clever)  have  recalled  the  pictures  in  the  old  "An 
nuals"  and  "Keepsakes"  of  fair  ladies  of  the  days 
of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton  and  L.  E.  L.  The  little  mis 
tress  of  Carroll  Farms  needed  but  a  scarf  and  harp, 
or  a  gold  chain  round  her  curls,  with  an  ornament 
reposing  classically  in  the  centre  of  her  forehead,  to 
have  taken  her  place  among  them.  But  upon  a 
closer  inspection  one  difference  would  have  made 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  H 

itself  apparent,  namely,  that  whereas  the  lovely 
ladies  of  the  "Annuals"  were  depicted  with  shoul 
ders  copiously  bare  (though  much  cloth  had  been 
expended  in  sleeves),  the  muslin  gown  of  little  Mad 
am  Carroll  came  up  to  her  chin,  the  narrow  ruffles 
at  the  top  being  kept  in  place  by  a  child's  old-fash 
ioned  necklace  of  coral,  which  fitted  closely  over 
them. 

Madam  Carroll's  eyes  were  blue,  large,  and  in  ex 
pression  tranquil ;  her  features  were  small  and  deli 
cate,  the  slender  little  lips  like  rose  leaves,  the  upper 
one  rather  long,  coming  straight  down  over  childlike 
teeth  of  pearl.  No ;  certainly  there  was  no  sign  of 
age.  Yet  it  might  have  been  noticed,  also,  by  an  acute 
observer,  how  little  space,  where  such  signs  would 
have  been  likely  to  appear,  was  left  uncovered :  the 
tell-tale  temples  and  outside  corners  of  the  eyes, 
the  throat,  with  its  faint,  betraying  hue,  the  subtly 
traitorous  back  of  the  neck,  the  texture  of  the  wrists 
and  palms,  all  these  were  concealed  by  the  veil  of 
curls  and  the  close  ruffles  of  the  dress,  the  latter  fall 
ing  over  the  hands  almost  to  the  knuckles.  There 
was  really  nothing  of  the  actual  woman  to  be  seen 
save  a  narrow,  curl-shaded  portion  of  forehead  and 
cheek,  two  eyes,  a  little  nose  and  mouth,  and  the 
small  fingers ;  that  was  all. 

But  a  presence  is  more  than  an  absence.     Absent 


12  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

as  were  all  signs  of  age  in  Madam  Carroll,  as  present 
were  all  signs  of  youth  in  the  daughter  who  had  jnst 
arrived.  Sara  Carroll  was  barely  twenty.  She  was 
tall  and  slender ;  she  carried  herself  well — well,  but 
with  a  little  air  of  pride.  This  air  came  from  the 
poise  of  her  head:  it  was  as  noticeable  when  one 
saw  her  back  only  as  when  one  saw  her  face.  It 
seemed  a  pride  personal,  not  objective,  belonging  to 
herself,  not  to  her  surroundings ;  one  could  imagine 
her  with  just  the  same  air  on  a  throne,  or  walking 
with  a  basket  on  her  arm  across  a  prairie.  But 
while  it  was  evident  that  she  was  proud,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  have  stated  correctly  the  nat 
ure  of  the  feeling,  since  it  was  equally  evident  that 
she  cherished  none  of  the  simple  little  beliefs  often 
seen  in  girls  of  her  age  before  contact  with  the 
world  has  roughly  dispelled  them — beliefs  that  they 
are  especially  attractive,  beautiful,  interesting,  win 
ning,  and  have  only  to  go  forth  to  conquer.  But 
she  herself  could  have  stated  the  nature  of  it  con 
fidently  enough :  she  believed  that  her  tastes,  her 
wishes,  her  ideas,  possessed  rather  a  superior  quality 
of  refinement ;  but  far  beyond  this  did  her  pride 
base  itself  upon  the  fact  that  she  was  her  father's 
daughter.  She  had  been  proud  of  this  from  her 
birth.  Her  features  were  rather  irregular,  delicate. 
Ordinarily  she  had  not  much  color.  Her  straight, 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  13 

soft  thick  hair  of  dark  brown  was  put  plainly  back 
from  her  oval  face,  and  this  face  was  marked  by 
the  slender  line  of  eyebrows  of  the  same  dusky 
hue,  and  lighted  by  two  gray  eyes,  which  were  al 
ways,  in  their  fair,  clear  color,  a  sort  of  surprise  when 
the  long,  dark  lashes  were  lifted. 

"I  wonder  that  you  take  the  trouble,"  she  said, 
referring  to  the  proposed  reception. 

The  blue  orbs  of  Madam  Carroll  dwelt  upon  her 
for  a  moment.  "  We  must  fill  our  position,"  she  an 
swered.  "  We  did  not  make  it ;  it  has  been  allotted 
to  us.  Its  duties  are  therefore  our  duties." 

"  But  are  they  real  duties,  mamma  ?  May  they 
not  be  fictitious  ones  ?  If  we  should  drop  them  for 
a  while — as  an  experiment  ?" 

"  If  we  should  drop  them,"  answered  Madam  Car 
roll — "if  we  should  drop  them,  Far  Edgerley,  socially 
speaking,  would  disappear.  It  would  become  a  mis 
cellaneous  hamlet  upon  a  mountain  -  top,  like  any 
other.  It  would  dissolve  into  its  component  parts, 
which  are,  as  you  know,  but  ciphers ;  we,  of  the 
Farms,  hold  them  together,  and  give  them  whatever 
importance  they  possess." 

"  In  other  words,  we,  of  the  Farms,  are  the  large 
figure  One,  which,  placed  before  these  poor  ciphers, 
immediately  turns  them  into  wealth,"  said  Sara, 
laughing. 


14  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

"  Precisely.  The  receptions  are  part  of  it.  In  ad 
dition,  the  Major  likes  them." 

Sara's  eyes  left  the  soft  darkness  of  the  garden, 
and  rested  upon  the  speaker.  "If  my  father  likes 
them,  that  is  enough.  But  I  thought  he  did  not ;  he 
used  to  speak  of  them,  when  we  met  at  Baltimore,  as 
so  wearisome." 

"  Wearisome,  perhaps ;  but  still  duties.  And  of 
late — that  is,  since  you  last  saw  him  a  year  and  a 
half  ago — he  has  come  to  make  of  them  a  sort  of 
pastime." 

"  That  is  so  like  my  father !  He  always  looks 
above  everything  narrow  and  petty.  He  can  find 
even  in  poor  little  Far  Edgerley  something  of  inter 
est.  How  glad  I  am  to  be  at  home  again,  mamma, 
where  I  can  be  with  him  all  the  time !  I  have  never 
met  any  one  in  the  world  who  could  approach  my 
father."  She  spoke  warmly  ;  her  gray  eyes  were 
full  of  loving  pride. 

"  He  appreciates  your  affection.  Never  doubt  it, 
in  spite  of  what  may  seem  to  you  an — an  increase 
of  reticence,"  said  Madam  Carroll. 

"  Father  was  never  talkative." 

"  True.  But  he  is  more  easily  fatigued  now  than 
formerly — since  his  illness  of  last  winter,  you  know. 
But  it  is  growing  late ;  I  must  close  the  house." 

"  Do  you  do  that  yourself  ?" 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  15 

"Generally.  I  seldom  keep  Judith  Inches  up 
after  half-past  nine.  And  on  ordinary  occasions  I 
am  in  bed  myself  soon  after  ten.  Your  home-com 
ing  is  an  extraordinary  one." 

"And  extraordinarily  glad  it  makes  me,"  said 
Sara.  "  I  wonder,  mamma,  if  you  know  how  glad  ? 
I  have  fairly  pined  during  this  last  year  and  a  half 
at  Longfields — yes,  in  spite  of  all  Uncle  John's  kind 
ness.  Do  you  think  me  heartless  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Madam  Carroll,  as  they  went  up  the 
stairs  together.  "  You  loved  your  uncle,  I  know. 
You  did  your  best  to  make  him  happy.  But  your 
father,  Sara — your  father,  you  have  always  adored." 

"  And  I  continue  to  do  it,"  answered  the  daughter, 
gayly.  "  I  shall  be  down  early,  early  in  the  morn 
ing  to  see  him." 

"  He  does  not  come  to  breakfast  at  present.  His 
strength  has  not  yet  fully  returned.  I  have  written 
you  of  this." 

"  Not  that  he  did  not  come  to  breakfast,  mamma. 
That  is  so  unlike  him ;  he  was  always  so  cheerful 
and  bright  at  the  breakfast-table.  But  at  least  I  can 
take  his  breakfast  in  to  him  ?" 

"I  think  he  would  rather  see  you  later — about 
ten,  or  half-past." 

A  flush  rose  in  Sara's  face :  no  one  would  have 
called  her  colorless  now.  She  looked  hurt  and  an- 


16  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

gry.  "  Pray,  who  does  take  in  his  breakfast,  then  ?" 
she  asked.  "I  should  think  I  might  be  as  welcome 
as  Judith  Inches." 

"  I  take  it,"  replied  Madam  Carroll,  gently. 

"  Yery  well,  mamma ;  I  will  not  begin  by  being 
jealous  of  you  ?" 

"  You  never  have  been,  my  daughter.  And  I — 
have  appreciated  it."  Madam  Carroll  spoke  in  low 
tones :  they  were  approaching  the  Major's  door.  She 
pointed  towards  it  warnirigly.  "  We  must  not  waken 
him,"  she  said.  She  led  her  daughter  in  silence  to 
the  room  she  had  fitted  up  for  her  with  much  taste 
and  care.  They  kissed  each  other,  and  separated. 

Left  alone,  Sara  Carroll  looked  round  her  room. 
As  much  had  been  done  to  make  it  bright  as  wom 
an's  hands,  with  but  a  small  purse  to  draw  upon, 
could  accomplish.  The  toilet-table,  the  curtains,  the 
low  lounge,  with  its  great,  cool,  chintz-covered  pil 
lows,  the  hanging  shelves,  the  easy-chair,  the  writing- 
table — all  these  were  miracles  of  prettiness  and  in 
genuity.  But  the  person  for  whom  this  had  been 
done  saw  it  but  vaguely.  She  was  thinking  of  only 
one  thing — her  father;  that  he  had  not  waited  to 
welcome  her ;  that  she  should  not  see  him  until 
half -past  ten  the  next  morning.  What  could  this 
mean?  If  he  were  ill,  should  not  his  daughter  be 
the  first  to  see  him,  the  first  to  take  care  of  him  ? 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  17 

She  had  told  Madam  Carroll  that  she  would  not 
begin  the  new  home  life  by  being  jealous  of  her. 
But  there  was  something  very  like  jealousy  in  the 
disappointment  which  filled  her  heart  as  she  laid  her 
head  upon  the  pillow.  She  had  looked  forward  to 
her  home-coming  so  long ;  and  now  that  she  held  it 
in  her  grasp  it  was  not  at  all  what  she  had  been 
sure  it  would  be. 

Upon  this  same  Saturday  evening,  at  dusk,  light 
was  shining  from  the  porch  and  windows  of  St. 
John  in  the  Wilderness,  the  Episcopal  church  of 
Far  Edgerley.  This  light  shone  brightest  from  the 
porch,  for  there  was  a  choir  rehearsal  within,  and 
the  four  illuminating  candles  were  down  by  the 
door,  where  stood  the  organ.  Two  of  the  candles 
illumined  the  organist,  Miss  Rendlesham  the  second, 
that  is,  Miss  Millie ;  the  others  lighted  the  high  music- 
stand,  behind  which  stood  the  choir  in  two  rows, 
the  first  very  crowded,  the  second  looking  with  some 
difficulty  over  the  shoulders  of  the  first  at  the  light 
ed  books  which  served  for  both,  little  Miss  Tappen, 
indeed,  who  was  short,  being  obliged  to  stand  on 
four  unused  chant-books,  piled.  In  the  front  row 
were  the  soprani,  eight  in  number,  namely,  Miss 
Kendlesham  the  elder,  and  her  sister ;  the  three 
Misses  Greer ;  Miss  Dalley  and  her  two  cousins,  the 
Farrens,  who  were  (which  was  so  interesting)  twins. 


18  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

In  the  back  row  were  the  two  contralti,  Miss  Bolt 
and  the  already  -  mentioned  Miss  Tappen  on  her 
books,  together  with  the  tenor,  Mr.  Phipps ;  there, 
too,  was  the  basso,  Mr.  Ferdinand  Kenneway,  a  bach 
elor  of  amiable  aspect,  but  the  possessor  also,  in  spite 
of  amiability,  of  several  singularly  elusive  qualities 
which  had  tried  the  patience  of  not  a  few. 

The  music-stand,  no  doubt,  was  very  much  too 
short  for  this  company.  But  then  it  was  intended 
for  a  quartette  only,  and  had  served  without  ques 
tion  for  four  estimable  persons  during  the  long, 
peaceful  rectorship  of  good  old  Parson  Montgom 
ery,  who  had  but  recently  passed  away.  Since  the 
advent  of  his  successor,  the  Reverend  Frederick 
Owen,  three  months  before,  the  choir  had  trebled 
its  size  without  trebling  that  of  the  stand ;  the  re 
sult  was  naturally  that  which  has  been  described. 

The  E-everend  Frederick  Owen  was  an  unmarried 
man. 

St.  John  in  the  Wilderness  had  as  its  rector's 
study  a  little  one -story  building  standing  in  the 
church-yard,  not  far  from  the  church ;  on  Saturday 
evenings  the  rector  was  generally  there.  Upon  the 
present  evening  Miss  Rendlesham  the  elder,  that  is, 
Miss  Corinna,  sent  the  juvenile  organ-blower,  Alex 
ander  Mann  by  name,  across  to  this  study  for  the 
numbers  of  the  hyrnns,  as  usual.  But  the  rector  did 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  19 

not  return  with  Alexander  Mann,  as  usual,  bringing 
the  hymns  with  him :  he  sent  the  numbers,  written 
on  a  slip  of  paper.  Under  these  circumstances  the 
choir  began  its  practising.  And  its  practising  was, 
on  the  whole,  rather  spiritless.  That  is,  in  sound, 
but  not  in  continuance;  for,  two  hours  later,  they 
were  still  bravely  at  work.  The  time  had  been 
principally  filled  with  Te  Deums.  During  the  past 
three  months  the  choir  had  had  a  new  Te  Deum 
every  Sunday — to  the  discomfiture  of  Senator  Ash 
ley,  who  liked  to  join  in  "  old  Jackson's." 

This  gentleman,  who  was  junior  warden,  had  drop 
ped  in,  soon  after  Alexander  Mann's  departure  with 
the  hymns,  to  talk  over  some  church  matters  with 
the  rector.  The  church  matters  finished,  he  remained 
a  while  longer  to  talk  over  matters  more  secular. 
The  junior  warden  had  a  talent  for  talking.  But 
this  gift  (as  is  often  the  case  with  gifts)  was  not  en 
couraged  at  home,  Miss  Honoria  Ashley,  his  daugh 
ter,  not  being  of  a  listening  disposition.  The  junior 
warden  was  therefore  obliged  to  carry  his  talent  else 
where.  He  was  a  small  old  gentleman,  lean  and 
wizened,  but  active,  and  even  lively,  in  spite  of  his 
age,  save  for  a  harassing  little  cough,  which  could, 
however,  end  with  surprising  adaptation  to  circum 
stances  in  either  a  chuckle  or  a  groan.  The  pos 
sessor  of  this  cough  wore  an  old-fashioned  dress-coat, 


20  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

with  a  high  stock  and  very  neat,  shining  little  shoes. 
He  had  always  in  his  button-hole  a  flower  in  sum 
mer,  and  in  winter  a  geranium  leaf. 

The  chanting  of  the  choir  came  through  the  open 
windows.  "  I  should  think  they  would  be  exhausted 
over  there,"  he  said.  "  How  long  do  they  keep  it  up  ? 
Ferdinand  Kenneway  must  be  voiceless  by  this  time. 
He  has  only  a  thread  of  a  voice  to  begin  with." 

"  He  sings  with  unusual  correctness,  I  believe," 
said  the  rector. 

"  Oh,  he's  correct — very !  It's  his  only  character 
istic.  I  don't  know  of  any  other,  unless  you  include 
his  health :  he  lives  principally  for  the  purpose  of 
not  taking  cold.  Your  choir  is  rather  predominately 
feminine  just  now,  isn't  it  ?"  added  the  old  gentle 
man,  slyly. 

"  Choirs  are  apt  to  be,  are  they  not  ?  I  mean  the 
volunteer  ones.  For  the  women  everywhere  come 
to  church  far  more  than  the  men  do.  It  is  one  of 
the  problems  with  which  clergymen  of  the  present 
day  find  themselves  confronted." 

"  That  the  women  come  ?" 

"  That  the  men  do  not."  The  rector  spoke  grave 
ly.  He  was  but  little  over  thirty  himself,  yet  he  had 
been  obliged  more  than  once  to  put  a  mildly  restrain 
ing  pressure  upon  the  somewhat  too  active  gay-mind- 
edness  of  his  venerable  junior  warden. 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  21 

"  What's  that  thing  they're  trying  now  ?"  said  this 
official,  abandoning  his  jocularity.  "  Dull  and  see 
saw  it  sounds  to  me ;  dull  and  see-saw." 

"  It's  a  Te  Deum  I  selected  for  Trinity  Sunday." 

"  Ah,  if  you  selected  it —  But  it  can  never  equal 
*  old  Jackson's,'  never !  That's  Sophy  Greer  on  the 
solo.  She  can  no  more  do  it  than  a  consumptive 
hen.  But,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  who  can — Sara  Carroll. 
They  expect  her  home  to-night." 

"  Madam  Carroll's  daughter  ?" 

"  No,  the  Major's.  Madam  Carroll  is  the  Major's 
second  wife — didn't  you  know  that?  Sara  Carroll, 
sir,  can  never  hope  to  equal  her  step -mother  in 
beauty,  grace,  or  charm.  But  she  is  a  fine  girl  in  her 
way — as  indeed  she  ought  to  be :  her  mother  was  a 
Witherspoon-Meredith." 

The  rector  looked  unimpressed.  The  junior  war 
den,  seeing  this,  drew  up  his  chair.  "  The  Wither- 
spoon  -  Merediths,  Mr.  Owen,  are  one  of  our  oldest 
families."  (The  rector  resigned  himself.)  "When 
Scarborough  Carroll  married  the  beautiful  Sara  of 
that  name,  a  noble  pair  they  were,  indeed,  as  they 
stood  at  the  altar.  I  speak,  sir,  from  knowledge :  / 
was  there.  Their  children — two  boys — died,  to  their 
great  grief.  The  last  child  was  this  daughter  Sara ; 
and  the  accomplished  mother  passed  away  soon  after 
the  little  thing's  birth.  Sir,  Major  Carroll,  your  sen- 


22  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

ior  warden,  has  always  been  one  of  our  grandest 
men ;  in  personal  appearance,  character,  and  distin 
guished  services,  one  of  the  noblest  sons  of  our  state. 
Of  late  he  has  not,  perhaps,  been  quite  what  he  was 
physically ;  but  the  change  is,  in  my  opinion,  entire 
ly  due — entirely — to  his  own  absurd  imprudences. 
For  he  is  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  the  very  prime." 
(Major  Carroll  was  sixty -nine;  but  as  the  junior 
warden  was  eighty-five,  he  naturally  considered  his 
colleague  still  quite  a  boy.)  "  Until  lately,  however, 
he  has  been  undeniably,  I  will  not  say  one  of  nat 
ure's  princes,  because  I  do  not  believe  in  them,  but 
one  of  the  princes  of  the  Carrolls,  which  is  saying  a 
vast  deal  more.  His  little  girl  has  always  adored 
him.  He  has  been,  in  fact,  a  man  to  inspire  admira 
tion.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  what  I  mean :  a  half- 
brother  of  his,  much  older  than  himself,  and  broken 
in  health,  lost,  by  the  failure  of  a  bank,  all  he  had  in 
the  world.  He  was  a  married  man,  with  a  family. 
Carroll,  who  was  at  that  time  a  young  lieutenant 
just  out  of  West  Point,  immediately  shared  his  own 
property  with  this  unfortunate  relative.  He  didn't 
dole  out  help,  keeping  a  close  watch  over  its  use,  or 
grudgingly  give  so  much  a  year,  with  the  constant 
accompaniment  of  good  advice;  he  simply  deeded  a 
full  half  of  all  he  had  to  his  brother,  and  never 
spoke  of  it  again.  Forty-five  years  have  passed,  and 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  23 

he  has  never  broken  this  silence ;  the  brother  is  dead, 
and  I  doubt  if  the  children  and  grandchildren  who 
profited  by  the  generous  act  even  know  to  whom 
they  are  indebted.  Such,  sir,  is  the  man,  chivalrous, 
unsullied,  true.  In  1861  he  gave  his  sword  to  his 
state,  and  served  with  great  gallantry  throughout 
the  war.  He  was  twice  severely  wounded ;  you 
may  have  noticed  that  his  left  arm  is  stiff.  When 
our  Sacred  Cause  was  lost,  with  the  small  remains 
of  his  small  fortune  he  purchased  this  old  place 
called  the  Farms,  and  here,  sir,  he  has  come,  to  pass 
the  remainder  of  his  days  in,  as  I  may  well  say,  the 
Past — the  only  country  left  open  to  him,  as  indeed 
to  many  of  us."  And  the  old  gentleman's  cough 
ended  in  the  groan. 

"  And  Miss  Carroll  has  not  been  with  them  here?" 
asked  the  rector,  giving  the  helm  of  conversation  a 
slight  turn  from  this  well-beaten  track. 

"No,  she  has  not.  But  there  have  been  good 
reasons  for  it.  To  give  you  the  causes,  I  must  make 
a  slight  detower  into  retrospect.  At  a  military  post 
in  Alabama,  when  Sara  was  about  seven  years  old, 
the  Major  met  the  lady  who  is  now  Madam  Carroll; 
she  was  then  a  widow  named  Morris,  with  one  child, 
a  little  girl.  You  have  seen  this  lady  for  yourself, 
sir,  and  know  what  she  is — a  domestic  angel,  yet  a 
very  Muse  in  culture ;  one  of  the  loveliest  women. 


24  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

one  of  the  most  engaging,  upon  my  word,  that  ever 
walked  the  face  of  this  earth,  and  honored  it  with 
her  tread."  (The  junior  warden  spoke  with  enthu 
siasm.)  "  She  is  of  course  very  much  younger  than 
her  husband,  thir-ty  three  or  four  years  at  the  least, 
I  should  say ;  for  Carroll  was  fifty-six  at  the  time  of 
his  second  marriage,  though  no  one  would  have  sus 
pected  it.  I  saw  Madam  Carroll  very  soon  after 
wards,  and  she  could  not  have  been  then  more  than 
twenty  one  or  two;  a  little  fairy-like  girl-mother. 
She  must  have  been  married  the  first  time  when  not 
more  than  sixteen.  Later  they  had  a  son,  the  boy 
you  know,  who  is  now,  save  Sara,  the  only  child." 

"  Ah,  I  see ;  I  understand,"  said  the  rector. 

But  the  junior  warden  did  not ;  his  understand 
ing  was  that  there  was  more  to  tell.  He  drew  up 
his  chair  again.  "  Sara  Carroll,  sir,  is  a  remarkable 
girl."  (The  rector  again  resigned  himself.)  "She 
is,  as  I  may  say,  one-ideaed.  By  that  I  mean  that 
she  has  had  from  childhood  one  feeling  so  predomi 
nant  that  she  has  fairly  seemed  to  have  but  the  one, 
which  is  her  devotion  to  her  father.  She  had  scarce 
ly  been  separated  from  him  (save,  as  it  happens, 
during  the  very  summer  when  he  met  and  married 
the  present  Madam  Carroll)  until  she  was  a  tall  girl 
of  thirteen.  This  was  in  1861.  At  that  time,  be 
fore  the  beginning  of  actual  hostilities,  her  uncle, 


TOR   THE   MAJOK.  25 

John  Chase — he  had  married  her  mother's  sister — 
offered  to  take  her  and  have  her  educated  with  his 
own  daughter  Euphemia  during  the  continuance  of 
the  troubled  times.  For  John  Chase  had  always 
been  very  fond  of  the  little  Sara ;  he  fancied  that 
she  was  like  his  wife.  And,  cold  New-Englander 
though  he  was,  he  had  worshipped  his  wife  (she  was 
Juliet  Witherspoon-Meredith),  and  seemed  to  be  al 
ways  thinking  of  her,  though  she  had  been  dead 
many  years.  The  Major  at  first  refused.  But 
Madam  Carroll,  with  her  exquisite  perception,  per 
fect  judgment,  and  beautiful  goodness  "  (the  junior 
warden  always  spoke  in  at  least  triplets  of  admira 
tion  when  he  mentioned  the  Major's  wTife),  "  ex 
plained  to  him  the  benefit  it  would  be  to  Sara.  Her 
own  lot  was  cast  with  his;  she  would  not  have  it 
otherwise ;  but  in  the  wandering  life  she  expected 
to  lead,  following  his  fortunes  through  the  armed 
South,  what  advantages  in  the  way  of  education 
should  she  be  able  to  secure  for  his  little  daughter, 
who  was  now  of  an  age  to  need  them  ?  Whereas 
her  uncle,  who  was  very  fond  of  her,  would  give  her 
many.  The  Major  at  last  yielded.  And  then  Sara 
was  told.  Well  as  they  knew  her,  I  think  they  were 
both  alarmed  at  the  intensity  of  her  grief.  But 
when  the  poor  child  saw  how  it  was  distressing  her 
father,  she  controlled  it,  or  rather  the  expression  of 

3 


26  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

it ;  and  to  me  her  self-control  was  more  touching 
even  than  her  tears  had  been,  for  one  could  see  that 
her  innocent  heart  was  breaking.  The  parting  was 
a  most  pathetic  sight — her  white  cheeks,  silence,  and 
loving,  despairing  eyes,  that  never  left  her  father's 
face — I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  more  affected. 
For  I  speak  from  personal  remembrance,  sir :  /  was 
there.  "Well,  that  little  girl  did  not  see  her  father 
again  for  four  long  years.  She  lived  during  that 
time  with  her  uncle  at  Longfields — one  of  those  vil 
lages  of  New  England  with  still,  elm -shaded,  con 
scientious  streets,  silent  white  houses,  the  green 
blinds  all  closed  across  their  broad  fronts,  yet  the 
whole  pervaded  too,  in  spite  of  this  quietude,  by  an 
atmosphere  of  general,  unresting  interrogativeness, 
which  is,  as  I  may  say,  sir,  strangling  to  the  unac 
customed  throat.  I  speak  from  personal  remem 
brance  ;  I  have  been  personally  there." 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  now  as  much  of — of  the 
atmosphere  you  mention,  as  there  once  was,"  said 
the  rector,  smiling. 

"  Perhaps  not,  perhaps  not.  But  when  I  was  there 
you  breathed  it  in  every  time  you  opened  your 
mouth — like  powdered  alum.  But  to  ree-vee-nir  (I 
presume  you  are  familiar  with  the  French  expres 
sion).  In  those  four  years  Sara  Carroll  grew  to 
womanhood ;  but  she  did  not  grow  in  her  feelings ; 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  27 

she  remained  one-ideaed.  Mind  you,  I  do  not,  while 
describing  it,  mean  in  the  least  to  commend  such  an 
affection  as  hers ;  it  was  unreasonable,  overstrained. 
I  should  be  very  sorry  indeed,  extremely  sorry,  to 
see  my  daughter  Honoria  making  such  an  idol  of 
me." 

The  rector,  who  knew  Miss  Honoria  Ashley,  her 
aspect,  voice,  and  the  rules  with  which  she  barred 
off  the  days  of  the  poor  old  junior  warden,  let  his 
eyes  fall  upon  his  well  -  scrubbed  floor  (scrubbed 
twice  a  week,  under  the  personal  supervision  of  Mrs. 
Rendlesham,  by  the  Kendleshanvs  maid-of-all-work, 
Lucilla. 

"  But  the  Ashley s  are  always  of  a  calm  and  rea 
sonable  temperament,  I  am  glad  to  say,"  pursued  the 
warden,  "  a  temperament  that  might  be  classified  as 
judicial.  Honoria  is  judicial.  To  ree-vee-nir.  Sara 
was  about  seventeen  when  her  father  bought  this 
place,  called  the  Farms,  and  nothing,!  suppose,  could 
have  kept  her  from  corning  home  at  that  time  but 
precisely  that  which  did  keep  her — the  serious  ill 
ness  of  the  uncle  to  whom  she  owed  so  much.  His 
days  were  said  to  be  numbered,  and  he  wanted  her 
constantly  beside  him.  I  am  inclined  to  suspect  that 
his  own  daughter,  Enphemia,  while  no  doubt  a  high 
ly  intellectual  person,  may  not  have  a — a  natural 
aptitude  for  those  little  tendernesses  of  voice,  touch, 


28  FOR   THE   MAJOR, 

and  speech— unprescribed  if  you  like,  but  most  dear 
— which  to  a  sick  man,  sir,  are  beyond  rubies,  far 
be}Tond."  The  old  man's  eyes  had  a  wistful  look  as 
he  said  this ;  he  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  his 
narrative,  and  even  Miss  Honoria ;  he  was  thinking 
of  Miss  Honoria's  mother,  his  loving  little  wife,  who 
had  been  long  in  paradise. 

He  went  on  with  his  story,  but  less  briskly.  "  Sara, 
therefore,  has  remained  at  Longfields  with  her  uncle. 
But  every  six  months  or  so  she  has  come  down  as 
far  as  Baltimore  to  meet  her  father,  who  has  jour 
neyed  northward  for  the  purpose,  with  Madam  Car 
roll,  the  expense  of  these  meetings  being  gladly 
borne  by  John  Chase,  whose  days  could  not  have 
been  so  definitely  numbered,  after  all,  as  he  supposed, 
since  he  has  lingered  on  indefinitely  all  this  time, 
nearly  three  years.  During  the  last  year  and  a  half, 
too,  he  has  been  so  feeble  that  Sara  could  not  leave 
him,  the  mere  thought  of  an  absence,  however  short, 
seeming  to  prey  upon  him.  She  has  not,  therefore, 
seen  her  father  since  their  last  Baltimore  meeting, 
eighteen  months  back,  as  the  Major  himself  has  not 
been  quite  well  enough  to  undertake  the  long  jour 
ney  to  Connecticut.  Chase  at  length  died,  two 
months  ago,  and  she  has  now  come  home  to  live. 
From  what  I  hear,"  added  the  warden,  summing  up, 
"I  am  inclined  to  think  that  she  will  prove  a  very 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  29 

fair  specimen  of  a  Witherspoon  and  Meredith,  if  not 
quite  a  complete  Carroll." 

"And  she  could  sing  the  solo  for  us  on  Trinity 
Sunday  ?"  said  the  rector,  giving  the  helm  a  turn 
towards  his  anthem. 

"  She  could"  said  the  warden,  with  impartial  ac 
cent,  retreating  a  little  when  he  found  himself  con 
fronted  by  a  date. 

"  Do  you  mean  if  she  would  ?" 

"  Well,  yes.  She  is  rather  distant — reserved  ;  I 
mean,  that  she  seems  so  to  strangers.  You  won't 
find  her  offering  to  sing  in  your  choir,  or  teach  in 
your  Sunday-school,  yor  bring  you  flowers,  or  em 
broider  your  book-marks,  or  make  sermon-covers  for 
you,  or  dust  the  church,  or  have  troubles  in  her  mind 
which  require  your  especial  advice ;  she  won't  be 
going  off  to  distant  mission  stations  on  Sunday  after 
noons,  walking  miles  over  red-clay  roads,  and  jump 
ing  brooks,  while  you  go  comfortably  on  your  black 
horse.  She'll  be  rather  a  contrast  in  St.  John's  just 
now,  won't  she  ?"  And  the  warden's  cough  ended 
in  the  chuckle. 

It  was  now  after  ten,  and  the  choir  was  still  prac 
tising.  Mr.  Phipps,  indeed,  had  proposed  going 
home  some  time  before.  But  Miss  Corinna  Ren- 
dlesham  having  remarked  in  a.  general  way  that  she 
pitied  "poor  puny  men  "  whose  throats  were  always 


30  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

"  giving  out,"  he  knew  from  that  that  she  would 
not  go  herself  nor  allow  Miss  Lucy  to  go.  Now 
Miss  Lucy  was  the  third  Miss  Rendlesham,  and  Mr. 
Phipps  greatly  admired  her.  Ferdinand  Kenneway, 
wiser  than  Phipps,  made  no  proposals  of  any  sort 
(this  was  part  of  his  correctness) ;  his  voice  had  been 
gone  for  some  time,  but  he  found  the  places  for 
everybody  in  the  music  -  books,  as  usual,  and  pre 
tended  to  be  singing,  which  did  quite  as  well. 

"I  am  convinced  that  there  is  some  mistake  about 
this  second  hymn,"  announced  Miss  Corinna  (after 
a  fourth  rehearsal  of  it) ;  "  it  is  the  same  one  we 
had  only  three  Sundays  ago." 

"  Four,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Greer,  with  feeling. 
For  was  not  this  a  reflection  upon  the  rector's 
memory  ? 

"  Oh,  very  well ;  if  it  is  four,  I  will  say  nothing. 
I  was  going  to  send  Alexander  Mann  over  to  the 
study  to  find  out — supposing  it  to  be  three  only — 
if  there  might  not  be  some  mistake." 

At  this  all  the  other  ladies  looked  reproachfully 
at  Miss  Greer. 

She  murmured,  "  But  your  fine  powers  of  re 
membrance,  dear  Miss  Corinna,  are  far  better  than 
mine." 

Miss  Corinna  accepted  this ;  and  sent  Alexander 
Mann  on  his  errand.  Ferdinand  Kenneway,  in  the 


FOR   THE  MAJOR.  31 

dusk  of  the  back  row,  smiled  to  himself,  thinly  ;  but 
as  nature  had  made  him  thin,  especially  about  the 
cheeks,  he  was  not  able  to  smile  in  a  richer  way. 

During  the  organ-boy's  absence  the  choir  rested. 
The  voices  of  the  ladies  were,  in  fact,  a  little  husky. 

"  "No,  it's  all  right ;  that's  the  hymn  he  meaned," 
said  Alexander  Mann,  returning.  "  An'  I  ast  him 
if  he  weern't  coming  over  ter-night,  an'  he  says,  '  Oh 
yes!'  says  he,  an'  he  get  up.  Old  Senator  Ashley's 
theer,  an'  he  get  up  too.  So  I  reckon  the  parson's 
comin',  ladies."  And  Alexander  smiled  cheerfully 
on  the  row  of  bonnets  as  he  went  across  to  his  box 
beside  the  organ. 

But  Miss  Corinna  stopped  him  on  the  way.  "  "What 
could  have  possessed  you  to  ask  questions  of  your 
rector  in  that  inquisitive  manner,  Alexander  Mann  ?" 
she  said,  surveying  him.  "  It  was  a  piece  of  great 
impertinence.  What  are  his  intentions  or  his  non- 
intentions  to  you,  pray  ?" 

"  Well,  Miss  Corinna,  it's  orful  late,  an'  I've  blowed 
an'  blowed  till  I'm  clean  blowed  out.  An'  I  knewed 
that  as  long  as  the  parson  stayed  on  over  theer,  you'd 
all—" 

"  All  what  P  demanded  Miss  Corinna,  Severely* 

But  Alexander,  frightened  by  her  tone,  retreated 
to  his  box. 

"Never  mind  him,  dear  Miss  Corinna,"  said  little 


32  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

Miss  Tappen,  from  behind  ;  "  he's  but  a  poor  mother 
less  orphan." 

"  Perhaps  he  is,  and  perhaps  he  is  not"  said  Miss 
Corinna.  "  But  in  any  case  he  must  finish  his  sen 
tence  :  propriety  requires  it.  Speak  up,  then,  Alex 
ander  Mann." 

"  I'll  stand  by  you,  Sandy,"  said  Mr.  Phipps, 
humorously. 

"You  said,"  pursued  Miss  Corinna,  addressing  the 
box,  since  Alexander  was  now  well  hidden  within  it 
— "you  said  that  as  long  as  the  rector  remained  in 
his  study,  you  knew — " 

"I  knewed  you'd  all  hang  on  here,"  said  Alexan 
der,  shrilly,  driven  to  desperation,  but  safely  invisi 
ble  within  his  wooden  retreat. 

"  Does  he  mean  anything  by  this  ?"  asked  Miss 
Corinna,  turning  to  the  soprani. 

"  I  am  sure  we  have  not  remained  a  moment  be 
yond  our  usual  time,"  said  Miss  Greer,  with  dignity. 

"  I  ask  yon,  does  he  mean  anything  ?"  repeated 
Miss  Corinna,  sternly. 

"  Oh,  dear  Miss  Corinna,  I  am  sure  he  has  no 
meaning  at  all — none  whatever.  He  never  has," 
said  good-natured  little  Miss  Tappen,  from  her  piled 
chant-books.  "  And  he  weeds  flower-beds  so  well !" 

Here  voices  becoming  audible  outside,  the  ladies 
stopped  ;  a  moment  later  the  rector  entered.  His 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  33 

junior  warden  was  not  with  him.  Having  recol 
lected  suddenly  the  probable  expression  upon  Miss 
Honoria's  face  at  this  hour,  the  junior  warden  had 
eaid  good-night,  paced  down  the  knoll  and  up  Edger- 
ley  Street  with  his  usual  careful  little  step  until  the 
safe  seclusion  of  Ashley  Lane  was  reached,  when, 
laying  aside  his  dignity,  he  took  its  even  moonlit 
centre,  and  ran,  or  rather  trotted,  as  fast  as  he  could 
up  its  winding  ascent  to  his  own  barred  front  door, 
where  Miss  Honoria  let  him  in,  candle  in  hand,  and 
on  her  head  the  ominous  cap  (frilled)  which  was 
with  her  the  expression  of  the  hour.  For  Miss 
Honoria  always  arranged  her  hair  for  the  night  and 
put  on  this  cap  at  ten  precisely ;  thus  crowned,  and 
wrapped  in  a  singularly  depressing  gray  shawl,  she 
was  accustomed  to  wait  for  the  gay  junior  warden, 
when  (as  had  at  present  happened)  he  had  forgotten 
her  wishes  and  the  excellent  clock  on  her  mantel 
that  struck  the  hours.  Meanwhile  the  rector  was 
speaking  to  his  choir  about  the  selections  for  Trinity 
Sunday.  He  addressed  Miss  Corinna.  At  rehearsals 
he  generally  addressed  Miss  Corinna.  This  was 
partly  due  to  her  martial  aspect,  which  made  her 
seem  the  natural  leader  far  more  than  Phipps  or 
Kenneway,  but  principally  because,  being  well  over 
fifty,  she  was  no  longer  troubled  by  the  flutter  of 
embarrassment  with  which  the  other  ladies  seemed 


34  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

to  be  oppressed  whenever  he  happened  to  speak  to 
them — timid  young  things  as  they  were,  all  of  them 
under  thirty-five. 

Miss  Corinna  responded  firmly.  The  other  ladies 
maintained  a  gently  listening  silence.  At  length 
the  rector,  having  finished  all  he  had  to  say,  glanced 
at  his  watch.  "  Isn't  it  rather  late  ?"  he  said. 

And  they  were  all  surprised  to  find  how  late  it 
was. 

Like  a  covey  of  birds  rising,  they  emerged  from 
the  pen  made  by  the  music-stand  and  organ,  and 
moved  in  a  modest  group  towards  the  door.  The 
rector  remained  behind  for  a  moment  to  speak  to 
Bell-ringer  Flower.  When  he  came  out,  they  were 
still  fluttering  about  the  steps  and  down  the  front 
path  towards  the  gate.  "  I  believe  our  roads  are 
the  same,"  he  said. 

As  indeed  they  were  :  there  was  but  one  road 
in  Far  Edgerley.  This  was  called  Edgerley  Street, 
and  all  the  grassy  lanes  that  led  to  people's  resi 
dences  turned  off  from  and  came  back  to  it,  going 
nowhere  else.  There  were  advantages  in  this.  Some 
persons  had  lately  felt  that  they  had  not  sufficiently 
appreciated  this  excellent  plan  for  a  town  ;  for  if 
any  friend  should  happen  to  be  out,  paying  a  visit 
or  taking  the  air,  sooner  or  later,  with  a  little  pa 
tience,  one  could  always  meet  her  (or  him) ;  she  (or 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  35 

lie),  without  deliberate  climbing  of  fences,  not  being 
able  to  escape. 

The  little  company  from  the  church  now  went 
down  the  church  knoll  towards  this  useful  street. 
Far  Edgerley  was  all  knolls,  almost  every  house 
having  one  of  its  own,  and  crowning  it.  The  rector 
walked  first,  with  Miss  Corinna ;  the  other  ladies 
followed  in  a  cluster  which  was  graceful,  but  some 
what  indefinite  as  to  ranks,  save  where  Mr.  Phipps 
had  determinedly  placed  himself  beside  Miss  Lucy 
Eendlesham,  and  thus  made  one  even  rank  of  two. 
Ferdinand  Kenneway  walked  by  himself  a  little  to 
the  right  of  the  band ;  he  walked  not  with  any  one 
in  particular,  but  as  general  escort  for  the  whole. 
Ferdinand  Kenneway  often  accompanied  Far  Edger 
ley  ladies  homeward  in  this  collective  way.  It  was 
considered  especially  safe. 

Flower,  the  bell-ringer,  left  alone  on  the  church 
steps,  looked  after  their  departing  figures  in  the 
moonlight.  "  A  riddler  it  is,"  he  said  to  himself — 
"  a  riddler,  and  a  myst'rous  one,  the  way  all  women- 
kind  feels  itself  drawed  to  parsons.  I  suppose  they 
jedge  anything  proper  that's  clirrycal."  He  shook 
his  head,  locked  the  church  door,  and  went  across 
to  close  the  study. 

Flower  was  a  Chillawassee  philosopher  who  had 
formerly  carried  the  mail  on  horseback  over  Lonely 


36  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

Mountain  to  Fox  Gap.  Age  having  dimmed  some 
what  his  youthful  fires,  lessening  thereby  his  inter 
est  in  natural  history,  as  exemplified  by  the  bears, 
wolves,  and  catamounts  that  diversified  his  route,  he 
had  resigned  his  position,  judging  it  to  be  "  a  little 
too  woodsy,"  on  the  whole,  for  a  man  of  his  years. 
He  then  accepted  the  office  of  bell-ringer  of  St. 
John's,  a  place  which  he  had  been  heard  to  say  con 
ferred  a  dignity  second  only  to  that  of  mails.  He 
was  very  particular  about  this  dignity,  and  the  title 
of  it.  "  Item,"  he  said,  "  that  I  be  not  a  sexton  ;  for 
sexton  be  a  slavish  name  for  a  free-born  moun 
taineer.  Bell-ringer  Flower  I  be,  and  Bell-ringer 
Flower  you  may  call  me." 

Now  the  bell  of  St.  John's  was  but  a  small  one, 
suspended  rustically,  under  a  little  roof  of  thatch, 
from  the  branch  of  an  old  elm  near  the  church 
door ;  to  ring  it,  therefore,  was  but  a  slight  task. 
But  Flower  made  it  a  weighty  one  by  his  attitude 
and  manner  as  he  stood  on  Sunday  mornings,  rope 
in  hand,  hat  off,  and  eyes  devotionally  closed,  beside 
his  leafy  belfry,  bringing  out  with  majestic  pull  the 
one  little  silver  note. 

He  now  re-arranged  the  chairs  in  the  study,  and 
came  upon  a  framed  motto  surrounded  by  rosebuds 
in  worsted-work,  a  fresh  contribution  to  the  rector's 
walls  from  the  second-  Miss  Greer.  "  Talk  about 


FOR   THE    MAJOR.  37, 

the  mil'try — my  !  they're  nothing  to  'em — nothing 
to  these  unmarried  reverints  !"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  surveyed  this  new  memento.  Pie  hung  it  on 
the  wall,  where  there  was  already  quite  a  frieze  of 
charming  embroidery  in  the  way  of  texts  and  wool 
len  flowers.  "  Item — however,  very  few  of  them  is 
unmarried.  Undoubted  they  be  drove  to  it  early, 
in  self-defence." 


38  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

"  You  are  a  little  tired,  Major?" 

"  Possibly.  Somewhat.  Sara  has  been  reading 
aloud  to  me  from  the  Review.  She  read  all  the 
long  articles." 

"Ah — she  does  not  know  how  that  tires  you.  I 
must  tell  her.  She  does  not  appreciate — she  is  still 
so  young,  you  know — that  with  your  extensive  read 
ing,  your  knowledge  of  public  affairs  and  the  world 
at  large,  you  can  generally  anticipate,  after  the  first 
few  sentences,  all  that  can  be  said." 

The  Major  did  not  deny  this  statement  of  his  re 
sources. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  village  for  an  hour  or  two," 
continued  Madam  Carroll ;  "  I  shall  take  Sara  with 
me."  (Here  the  Major's  face  seemed  to  evince  a 
certain  relief.)  "  We  must  call  upon  Miss  Honoria 
Ashley.  And  also  at  Chapultepec,  upon  Mrs.  Hib~ 
bard." 

"Yes,  yes  —  widow  of  General  Hibbard,  of  the 
Mexican  War,"  said  the  Major,  half  to  himself. 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  39 

"  I  do  not  pay  many  visits,  as  you  know,  Major ; 
our  position  does  not  require  it.  We  open  our 
house  —  that  is  enough  ;  our  friends  come  to  us  ; 
they  do  not  expect  us  to  go  to  them.  But  I  make 
an  exception  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Hibbard  and  of 
Miss  Ashley,  as  you  have  advised  me  to  do ;  for  the 
Ashleys  are  connected  with  the  Carrolls  by  mar 
riage,  though  the  tie  is  remote,  and  Mrs.  Hibbard's 
mother  was  a  Witherspoon.  I  know  you  wish  Sara 
to  understand  and  recognize  these  little  distinctions 
and  differences." 

"  Certainly.     Yery  proper,"  said  the  Major. 

"  We  shall  be  gone  an  hour  and  a  half,  perhaps 
two  hours.  I  will  send  Scar  to  you  for  his  lessons ; 
and  I  shall  tell  Judith  Inches  to  allow  no  one  to 
disturb  you,  not  even  to  knock  at  this  door.  For 
Scars  lessons  are  important,  Major." 

"  Yes,  very  important — very." 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  said  his  wife,  cheerfully,  rest 
ing  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  for  a  moment,  as  she 
stood  beside  his  chair.  The  Major  drew  the  slender 
hand  forward  to  his  gray  moustache. 

"Fie, Major !  you  spoil  me,"  said  the  little  woman, 
laughing. 

She  left  the  room,  making,  with  her  light  dress 
and  long  curls,  a  pretty  picture  at  the  door,  as  she 
turned  to  give  him  over  her  shoulder  a  farewell  nod 


40  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

and  smile.    The  Major  kept  on  looking  at  the  closed 
door  for  several  minutes  after  she  had  gone. 

Not  long  after  this  the  same  door  opened,  and  a 
little  boy  came  in  ;  his  step  was  so  light  and  his 
movements  so  careful  that  he  made  no  sound.  He 
closed  the  door,  and  laid  the  book  he  had  brought 
with  him  upon  a  table.  He  was  a  small,  frail  child, 
with  a  serious  face  and  large  blue  eyes ;  his  flaxen 
hair,  thin  and  fine,  hung  in  soft,  scanty  waves  round 
his  little  throat  —  a  throat  which  seemed  too  small 
for  his  well-developed  head,  yet  quite  large  enough 
for  his  short,  puny  body.  He  was  dressed  in  a  bine 
jacket,  with  an  embroidered  white  collar  reaching  to 
the  shoulders,  and  ruffles  of  the  same  embroidery  at 
the  knee,  where  his  short  trousers  ended.  A  blue 
ribbon  tied  his  collar,  and  his  slender  little  legs  and 
feet  were  incased  in  long  white  stockings  and  low 
slippers,  such  as  are  worn  by  little  girls.  His  whole 
costume,  indeed,  had  an  air  of  effeminacy  ;  but  he 
was  such  a  delicate-looking  little  fellow  that  it  was 
not  noticeable.  From  a  woman's  point  of  view,  he 
was  prettily  dressed. 

He  crossed  the  room,  opened  a  closet  door,  and 
took  from  a  shelf  two  boxes,  which  he  carried  to 
the  table,  making  a  separate  journey  with  each.  He 
arranged  these  systematically,  the  book  in  the  cen 
tre,  a  box  on  each  side ;  then  he  pushed  the  table 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  41 

over  the  carpet  towards  the  Major's  chair.  The 
table  was  narrow  and  light,  and  made  no  sound. 
He  moved  onward  slowly,  his  hands,  widely  apart, 
grasping  its  top,  and  he  paused  several  times  to  peer 
round  the  corner  of  it  so  as  to  bring  it  up  within 
an  inch  of  the  Major's  feet,  yet  not  to  touch  them. 
This  accomplished,  he  surveyed  the  position  grave 
ly.  Satisfied  with  it,  he  next  brought  up  a  chair  for 
himself,  which,  while  not  the  ordinary  high-chair  of 
a  child,  seemed  yet  to  have  been  made  especially  for 
him  on  account  of  his  low  stature.  He  drew  this 
chair  close  to  the  table  on  the  opposite  side,  climbed 
into  it,  and  then,  when  all  was  prepared,  he  spoke. 
"  I  am  quite  ready  now,  papa,  if  you  please."  His 
slender  little  voice  was  clear  and  even,  like  his 
mother's;  his  words  followed  each  other  with  slow 
precision. 

The  Major  woke,  or,  if  he  had  not  been  asleep, 
opened  his  eyes.  "  Ah,  little  Scar,"  he  said,  "  you 
here?"  And  he  patted  the  child's  hand  caressing 
ly.  Scar  opened  his  book;  then  one  of  the  boxes, 
which  contained  white  blocks  with  large  red  letters 
painted  upon  them.  He  read  aloud  from  the  book 
a  sentence,  once,  twice.  Then  he  proceeded  to  make 
it  from  memory  with  the  blocks  on  the  table,  work 
ing  slowly,  and  choosing  each  letter  with  thought 
ful  deliberation. 


42  FOB  THE  MAJOR. 

"Good — blood  —  can — not — lie,"  he  read  aloud 
from  his  row  of  letters  when  the  sentence  was  com 
pleted.  "  I  think  that  is  right.  Your  turn,  papa." 

And  then  the  Major,  with  almost  equal  slowness, 
formed,  after  Scar  had  read  it,  the  following  adage : 
"  A  brave  father  makes  a  brave  son."  "  That's  you 
and  I,  Scar." 

"  Yes,  papa.  And  this  is  the  next :  l  The — knights 
— are — dust. — Their — good — swords — rust. — Their 
— souls — are — with — the — saints — we — trust.'  That 
is  too  long  for  one.  We  will  call  it  three." 

Father  and  little  son  completed  in  this  slow  way 
eight  of  the  sentences  the  little  book  contained.  It 
was  a  small,  flat  volume  in  manuscript,  the  letters 
clearly  printed  with  pen  and  ink.  The  Major's 
wife  had  prepared  it,  "  from  the  Major's  dictation," 
she  said.  "  A  collection  of  the  fine  old  sayings  of 
the  world,  which  he  greatly  admires,  and  which  he 
thinks  should  form  part  of  the  preliminary  educa 
tion  of  our  son." 

"  Eight.  The  lesson  is  finished,  papa,"  said  Scar. 
"If  you  think  I  have  done  sufficiently  well,  I  may 
now  amuse  myself  with  my  dominoes."  As  he 
spoke  he  replaced  the  letters  in  their  box,  put  on 
the  cover,  and  laid  the  manuscript  book  on  the  top. 
Then  he  drew  forward  the  second  box,  and  took  out 
his  dominoes.  He  played  by  himself,  one  hand 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  43 

against  the  other.     "  You  will  remember,  papa,  that 
my  right  hand  I  call  Bayard  and  my  left  Roland." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Major,  looking  on  with  in 
terest. 

Roland  won  the  first  game.  Then  the  second.  "  The 
poor  chevalier  seems  to  have  no  luck  to-day.  I  must 
help  him  a  little,"  said  the  Major.  And  he  and  Scar 
played  a  third  game. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged,  with  Bayard's  fort 
unes  not  much  improved  as  yet,  the  door  opened,  and 
Sara  Carroll  came  in.  The  Major  was  sitting  with 
his  spectacles  on  and  head  bent  forward,  in  order  to 
read  the  numbers  on  the  dominoes;  his  hand, poised 
over  the  game  while  he  considered  his  choice,  had 
the  shrivelled  appearance,  with  the  veins  prominent 
on  the  back,  which  more  than  anything  else  betrays 
the  first  feebleness  of  old  age.  As  his  daughter  came 
in  he  looked  up,  first  through  his  spectacles,  then, 
dropping  his  head  a  little,  over  them,  after  the  peer 
ing  fashion  of  old  men.  But  the  instant  he  recog 
nized  her  his  manner,  attitude,  even  his  whole  appear 
ance,  changed,  as  if  by  magic ;  his  spectacles  were 
off;  he  had  straightened  himself,  and  risen.  "Ah! 
you  have  returned  ?"  he  said.  "  Scar  had  his  lessons 
so  well  that  I  have  permitted  him  to  amuse  himself 
with  his  dominoes  for  a  while,  as  you  see.  You  are 
back  rather  sooner  than  you  expected,  aren't  you  ?" 


44  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

"  We  had  to  postpone  our  visit  to  Mrs.  Hibbard," 
said  Sara. 

The  Major's  lips  formed, "  of  the  Mexican  War ;" 
but  he  did  not  utter  the  syllables  aloud,  and  imme 
diately  thereafter  seemed  to  take  himself  more  vigor 
ously  in  hand,  as  it  were.  He  walked  to  the  hearth 
rug,  and  took  up  a  position  there  with  his  shoulders 
back,  his  head  erect,  and  one  hand  in  the  breast  of 
his  frock-coat.  "  It  is  quite  proper  that  you  should 
go  to  see  those  two  ladies,  my  daughter;  the  Ash- 
leys  are  connected  with  the  Carrolls  by  marriage, 
though  the  tie  is  a  remote  one,  and  the  mother  of 
Mrs. — Mrs. — the  other  lady  you  were  mentioning ; 
her  name  has  just  escaped  me — " 

"  Hibbard,"  said  Sara. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Hibbard  of  the  Mex —  I  mean,  that 
Mrs.  Hibbard's  mother  was  a  Witherspoon.  It  is 
right  that  you  should  recognize  these — ah,  these  lit 
tle  distinctions  and  differences."  He  brought  out  the 
last  words  in  full,  round  tones.  The  Major's  voice 
had  always  been  a  fine  one. 

He  was  a  handsome,  soldierly-looking  man,  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  with  noble  bearing,  and  bold,  well- 
cut  features.  He  was  dressed  in  black,  with  broad, 
stiff,  freshly  starched  white  cuffs,  and  a  high  stand 
ing  collar,  round  which  was  folded  a  black  silk  cravat 
that  when  opened  was  three-quarters  of  a  yard  square. 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  45 

His  thin  gray  hair,  moustache,  and  imperial  were  cut 
after  the  fashion  affected  by  the  senior  officers  of  the 
old  army — the  army  before  the  war. 

"  They  are  not  especially  interesting  in  them 
selves,  those  two  ladies,"  remarked  his  daughter,  tak 
ing  off  her  little  black  bonnet.  "  Miss  Honoria  cares 
more  about  one's  shoes — whether  or  not  they  are 
dusty  enough  to  injure  her  oiled  floors — than  about 
one's  self ;  and  Mrs.  Hibbard  talks  all  the  time  about 
her  ducks." 

"  True,  quite  true.  Those  ducks  are  extremely 
tiresome.  I  have  had  to  hear  a  great  deal  about 
them  myself,"  said  the  Major,  in  an  injured  tone, 
forgetting  for  a  moment  his  military  attitude.  "  What 
do  I  know  of  ducks  ?  Yet  she  will  talk  about 
them." 

"  Why  should  you  listen  ?"  said  Sara,  drawing  off 
her  gloves. 

"  Ah,  we  must  not  forget  that  her  mother  was  a 
Mex — I  mean,  a  Witherspoon.  It  is  not  necessary 
for  us,  for  you,  to  pay  many  visits,  my  daughter ;  our 
position  does  not  require  it.  We — ah — we  open  our 
house  ;  that  is  enough  ;  our  friends  come  to  us ;  they 
do  not  expect  us  to  go  to  them." 

Sara  was  now  taking  off  her  mantle;  he  watched 
to  see  whether  she  would  keep  it  or  put  it  down. 
She  threw  it  over  her  arm,  and  she  also  took  up  her 


46  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

bonnet  and  gloves.  "  You  will  let  me  come  back 
and  read  to  you,  father?" 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear ;  but  it  is  not  necessary.  I 
have  still  another  of  Scar's  lessons  to  attend  to,  and 
Scar's  lessons  are  important,  very  important.  There 
are,  besides,  various  other  little  things  which  may 
require  my  attention.  In  short,  my — ah — mornings 
are  at  present  quite  filled.  Besides,  reading  aloud  is 
very  fatiguing,  very ;  and  I  do  not  wish  you  to  fa 
tigue  yourself  on  my  account." 

"  Nothing  I  was  doing  for  you  could  fatigue  me, 
father.  You  don't  know  how  I  have  longed  to  be 
at  home  again  so  that  I  could  do  something  for 
you."  She  spoke  warmly. 

The  Major  looked  perturbed.  He  coughed,  and 
glanced  helplessly  towards  the  door.  As  if  in  an 
swer  to  his  look,  the  door  at  that  moment  opened, 
and  his  wife  came  in. 

"Mr.  Owen  is  in  the  drawing-room,  Sara,"  she 
said.  "Will  you  go  in  and  see  him,  please?  I  will 
follow  you  in  a  moment.  I  met  him  on  his  way 
here,  and  offered  him  your  vacant  place  in  the  car 
riage." 

"He  comes  rather  often,  doesn't  he?"  said  Sara, 
her  eyes  still  on  her  father's  face. 

"Yes,  he  comes  often.  But  it  is  natural  that  he 
should  wish  to  come.  -  As  the  Major  has  observed 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  47 

before  this,  the  rector  of  St.  John's  must  always  rely 
for  his  most  congenial  society,  as  well  as  for  some 
thing  of  guidance,  too,  upon  Carroll  Farms." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Major.  "  I  have  often  made 
the  remark." 

"I  suppose  he  comes  more  especially  to  see  you, 
father,"  Sara  said. 

"  Mr.  Owen  knows  that  he  must  not  expect  to  see 
the  Major  in  the  morning,"  said  Madam  Carroll. 
"  The  Major's  mornings  are  always  occupied,  and  he 
prefers  not  to  be  interrupted.  In  fact,  it  is  not  Mr. 
Owen,  but  you  and  I,  Sara,  who  have  been  the  chief 
sinners  in  this  respect  of  late;  we  must  amend  our 
ways.  But  come,  you  should  not  keep  the  rector 
waiting  too  long,  or  he  will  think  that  your  Northern 
education  has  relaxed  the  perfection  of  your  Carroll 
manners." 

She  took  her  daughter's  arm,  and  they  left  the 
room  together.  But  only  a  few  minutes  had  elapsed 
when  the  little  wife  returned.  "  Go  get  your  father's 
glass  of  milk,  my  pet,"  she  said  to  Scar. 

The  boy  climbed  down  from  his  place  at  the  table, 
and  left  the  room  with  his  noiseless  step.  The  Ma 
jor  was  leaning  back  in  his  easy-chair,  with  his  eyes 
closed  ;  he  looked  tired. 

"  We  went  to  the  Ashleys',"  said  his  wife,  taking 
a  seat  beside  him.  "  But  there  we  learned  that  Mrs. 


48  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

Hibbard  was  confined  to  her  bed  by  an  attack  of 
rheumatism,  brought  on,  they  think,  by  her  having 
remained  too  long  in  the  duck-yard  ;  and  so  we  were 
obliged  to  postpone  our  visit  to  Chapultepec.  I  then 
decided  to  take  the  time  for  some  necessary  house 
hold  purchases,  and  as  Sara  knows  as  yet  but  little 
of  my  method  of  purchasing,  I  arranged  to  leave  her 
at  Miss  Dalley's  (Miss  Dal  ley  has  been  so  anxious  to 
talk  over  Tasso  with  her,  you  know),  and  call  for 
her  on  my  return.  But  she  must  have  soon  tired  of 
Miss  Dalley,  for  she  did  not  wait ;  she  walked  home 
alone." 

"Yes,  she  came  in  here.  She  has  been  here  a 
long  time,"  answered  the  Major.  Then  he  opened 
his  eyes.  "It  was  in  the  midst  of  Scar's  lessons," 
he  said,  as  if  explaining. 

"  Ah,  I  see.  That  must  not  happen  again.  She 
will  at  once  understand — that  is,  when  I  explain  it — 
that  Scar's  lessons  should  not  be  interrupted.  She 
is  very  fond  of  Scar.  You  will  have  your  lunch  in 
here  to-day,  won't  you,  Major?  I  think  it  would  be 
better.  It  is  Saturday,  you  know,  and  on  Saturdays 
we  all  rest  before  the  duties  of  Sunday — duties  which, 
in  your  case  especially,  are  so  important." 

But  the  Major  seemed  dejected.  "I  don't  know 
about  that — about  their  being  so  important,"  he  an 
swered.  "  Ashley  is  always  there." 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  49 

"Oh,  Major!  Major!  the  idea  of  your  comparing 
yourself  with  Godfrey  Ashley !  He  is  all  very  well 
in  his  way — I  do  not  deny  that ;  but  he  is  not  and 
never  can  be  you.  Why,  St.  John's  would  not  know 
itself,  it  would  not  be  St.  John's,  if  you  were  not 
there  to  carry  round  the  plate  on  Sunday  mornings. 
And  everybody  would  say  the  same."  She  laid  her 
hand  on  his  forehead,  not  with  a  light,  uncertain 
touch,  but  with  that  even  pressure  which  is  grateful 
to  a  tired  head.  The  Major  seemed  soothed ;  he  did 
not  open  his  eyes,  but  he  bent  his  head  forward  a 
little  so  that  his  forehead  could  rest  against  her 
hand.  Thus  they  remained  for  several  minutes. 
Then  Scar  came  back,  bringing  a  glass  of  milk,  with 
the  thick  cream  on  it;  he  placed  this  on  the  table 
beside  his  father,  climbed  into  his  chair,  and  went 
on  with  his  game,  Bayard  against  Roland.  The  Ma 
jor  took  the  glass  and  began  to  sip  the  milk,  at  first 
critically,  then  appreciatively;  he  had  the  air  of  a 
connoisseur  over  a  glass  of  old  wine.  "  How  is  it 
this  morning  ?"  asked  Madam  Carroll,  with  interest. 
And  she  listened  to  his  opinion,  delivered  at  some 
length. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  rising ;  "  Sara  will  be 
expecting  me  in  the  drawing-room." 

She  had  taken  off  her  gypsy  hat  and  gloves,  and 
put  on  a  little  white  apron  with  blue  bows  on  the 


50  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

pockets.  As  she  crossed  the  room  towards  the  door, 
with  her  bunch  of  household  keys  at  her  belt,  she 
looked  more  like  a  school-girl  playing  at  housekeep 
ing  than  the  wife  of  a  man  of  the  Major's  age  (or, 
indeed,  of  a  man  much  younger  than  the  Major),  and 
the  mother  of  Scar.  But  this  was  one  of  the  charms 
among  the  many  possessed  by  this  little  lady — she 
was  so  young  and  small  and  fair,  and  yet  at  the  same 
time  in  other  ways  so  fully  "  Madam  Carroll "  of  "  The 
Farms." 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Owen  thought  of  this  as  she 
entered  the  drawing-room.  He  had  thought  of  it 
before.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Owen  greatly  admired 
Madam  Carroll. 

When  he  had  paid  his  visit  and  gone,  Sara  Car 
roll  went  up-stairs  to  her  own  room.  She  had  her 
mantle  on  her  arm,  her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  for  she 
had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  go  to  her  room  before 
receiving  his  visit,  as  Madam  Carroll  had  taken  it : 
Madam  Carroll  always  took  trouble. 

Half  an  hour  later  there  was  a  tap  upon  her  door, 
and  her  step-mother,  having  first  waited  for  permis 
sion,  entered.  Sara  had  taken  the  seat  which  hap 
pened  to  be  nearest  the  entrance,  an  old,  uncomfort 
able  ottoman  without  a  back,  and  she  still  held  her 
bonnet  and  mantle,  apparently  unconscious  that  she 
had  them ;  the  blinds  had  not  been  closed,  and  the 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  51 

room  was  full  of  the  noon  sunshine,  which  struck 
glaringly  against  the  freshly  whitewashed  walls. 
Madam  Carroll  took  in  the  whole — the  listless  atti 
tude,  the  forgotten  mantle,  the  open  blinds,  the  near 
est  chair.  She  drew  the  blinds  together,  making  a 
cool,  green  shade  in  place  of  the  white  light ;  then 
she  took  the  bonnet  and  mantle  from  the  girl's  pas 
sive  hand,  folded  the  mantle,  and  placed  the  two 
carefully  in  the  closet  where  they  belonged. 

"I  can  do  that.  You  must  not  give  yourself 
trouble  about  my  things,  mamma,"  Sara  said. 

"It  is  no  trouble,  but  a  pleasure.  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  other  feminine  things  about  the  house ;  mine 
have  so  long  been  the  only  ones — for  I  suppose  we 
can  hardly  count  the  neuter  gowns  of  Judith  Inches. 
Don't  you  like  the  easy-chair  Caleb  and  I  made  for 
you?" 

"It  is  very  nice.     I  like  it  very  much." 

"But  not  enough  to  sit  in  it,"  said  Madam  Car 
roll,  smiling. 

"  I  really  did  not  notice  where  I  was  sitting,"  said 
the  girl,  getting  up  ;  "  I  almost  always  sit  in  the  easy- 
chair.  But  won't  you  take  it  yourself,  mamma?" 

"  I  would  rather  see  you  in  it,"  answered  Madam 
Carroll.  "Besides,  it  is  too  deep  for  me;  there  is 
some  difference  in  our  lengths."  She  seated  herself 
in  a  low  chair,  and  looked  at  the  long,  lithe  shape 


52  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

of  Sara,  opposite,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  slender 
feet  out,  her  arms  extended  on  the  broad  arms  of 
the  cushioned  seat. 

Sara,  too,  looked  at  herself.  "  I  am  afraid  I  loll," 
she  said. 

I"  Be  thankful  that  you  can,"  answered  the  smaller 
lady ;  "  it  is  a  most  refreshing  thing  to  do  now  and 
then.  Short-backed  women  cannot  loll.  And  then 
people  say,  '  Oh,  she  never  rests  !  she  never  leans 
back  and  looks  comfortable  !'  when  how  can  she  ? 
It  is  a  matter  of  vertebrae,  and  we  do  not  make  our 
own,  I  suppose.  You  did  not  stay  long  at  Miss  Dai- 
ley's.  Didn't  you  find  her  agreeable  '?" 

"  She  might  have  been — unaccompanied  by  Tasso." 
Madam  Carroll  laughed.  "  He  is  her  most  inti 
mate  friend.  She  has  quite  taken  him  to  her  heart. 
She  has  been  so  anxious  to  see  you,  because  you 
were  acquainted  with  him  in  his  own  tongue,  whereas 
she  has  been  obliged  to  content  herself  with  transla 
tions.  She  has  a  leaf  from  his  favorite  tree,  and  a 
small  piece  of  cloth  from  his  coat — or  was  it  a  toga  ? 
But  no,  of  course  not ;  doublet  and  hose,  and  those 
delightful  lace  ruffles  which  are  such  a  loss  to  soci 
ety.  These  valuable  relics  she  keeps  framed.  It  is 
really  most  interesting." 

"I  never  cared  much  for  Tasso,"  said  Sara,  indif 
ferently. 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  53 

"  That  is  because  you  have  had  a  large  variety  to 
choose  from,  reading  as  you  do  all  the  poets  in  the 
original,  from  Homer  down  to — to  our  sad  but  fas 
cinating  Lamartine,"  answered  Madam  Carroll,  look 
ing  consideringly  about  the  room,  and  finally  staying 
her  glance  at  the  toilet-table,  upon  which  she  had 
expended  much  time  and  care.  "  But  our  poor  Miss 
Dalley's  life  has  been  harshly  narrowed  down,  nar 
rowed,  I  may  say,  to  Tasso  alone.  For  all  their  small 
property  was  swept  away  by  the  war,  and  she  is  now 
obliged  to  support  herself  and  her  mother  by  dye 
ing:  there  is,  fortunately,  a  good  deal  of  dyeing  in 
Far  Edgerley,  and  so  she  took  it  up.  You  must 
have  noticed  her  hands.  But  we  always  pretend 
not  to  notice  them,  because  in  all  other  ways  she  is 
so  lady-like ;  when  she  expects  to  see  any  one,  she 
always,  and  most  delicately,  wears  gloves." 

Madam  Carroll  related  this  little  village  history 
as  though  she  were  but  filling  an  idle  moment;  but 
the  listener  received  an  impression,  none  the  less, 
somewhere  down  in  a  secondary  consciousness,  that 
she  had  not  quite  done  justice  to  poor  Miss  Dalley 
and  her  aspirations,  and  that  some  time  she  ought 
to  try  to  atone  for  it. 

But  this  secondary  consciousness  was  small :  it, 
was  small  because  the  first  was  so  wide  and  deep, 
and  so  filled  with  trouble  —  trouble  composed  in 


54:  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

equal  parts  of  perplexity,  disappointment,  and  grief. 
She  was  at  borne,  and  she  was  not  happy.  This  was 
a  conjunction  of  conditions  which  she  had  not  be 
lieved  could  be  possible. 

She  had  never  had  any  disagreements  with  her 
father's  wife,  and  she  had  been  fond  of  her  in  a 
certain  way.  But  the  wife  had  never  been  to  the 
daughter  more  than  an  adjunct — something  added 
to  her  father,  of  qualifying  but  not  independent  im 
portance  ;  a  little  moon,  bright,  if  you  pleased,  and 
pretty,  but  still  a  satellite  revolving  round  its  sun. 
As  a  child,  she  had  accepted  the  new  mother  upon 
this  basis,  because  she  could  make  everything  "  more 
pleasant  for  papa ;"  and  she  had  gone  on  accepting 
her  upon  the  same  basis  ever  since.  Madam  Carroll 
knew  this.  She  had  never  quarrelled  with  it.  She 
and  her  daughter  had  filled  their  respective  positions 
in  entire  amity.  But  now  that  this  daughter  had 
come  home  to  live,  now  that  she  was  no  longer  a 
school-girl  or  child,  this  was  what  she  had  discov 
ered  :  her  father,  her  idol,  had  turned  from  her, 
and  his  wife  had  gained  what  his  daughter  had  lost. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  but  that  he  had  turned  from 
her;  his  manner  towards  her  was  entirely  changed. 
He  seemed  no  longer  to  care  to  have  her  with  him ; 
he  seemed  to  avoid  her;  he  was  not  interested  in 
anything  that  was  connected  with  her — he  who  had 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  55 

formerly  been  so  full  of  interest ;  he  never  kept 
up  a  conversation  with  her,  but  let  it  drop  as  soon 
as  he  could  ;  he  was  so — so  strange !  Although  she 
had  now  been  at  home  two  weeks,  she  had  scarcely 
once  been  alone  with  him  ;  Madam  Carroll  had  either 
been  present  from  the  beginning,  or  she  had  soon 
come  in  ;  Madam  Carroll  had  led  the  conversation, 
suggested  the  topics.  The  Major  had  always  been 
fond  of  his  pretty  little  wife ;  but  he  had  also  been 
devoted  to  his  daughter.  The  change  in  him  she 
could  not  understand ;  it  made  her  very  unhappy. 
It  would  have  made  her  more  than  that — made  her 
wretched  beyond  the  possibility  of  concealment- 
had  there  not  been  in  it  an  element  of  perplexity  ; 
perplexity  which  bewildered  her,  which  she  could 
not  solve.  For,  while  her  own  position  and  her 
father's  regard  for  her  seemed  completely  changed, 
life  at  the  Farms  went  on  day  after  day  upon  the 
distinct  assumption  that  there  was  no  change,  that 
everything  was  precisely  as  it  always  had  been. 
This  assumption  was  not  only  mentioned,  but  in 
sisted  upon,  the  Major's  wife  often  alluding  with 
amusement  to  what  she  called  their  "  dear  obstinate 
old  ways." 

"  The  Major  ties  his  cravat  precisely  as  he  did 
twenty-five  years  ago  —  he  has  acknowledged  it  to 
me,"  she  said,  glancing  at  him  merrily.  "  We  have 


56  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

the  same  things  for  dinner;  we  wear  the  same  clothes, 
or  others  made  exactly  like  them ;  we  read  the  same 
books  because  we  think  them  so  much  better  than 
the  new ;  we  discuss  the  same  old  topics  for  the  same 
prejudiced  old  reason.  We  remain  so  obstinately 
unchanged  that  even  Time  himself  does  not  remem 
ber  who  we  are.  Each  year  when  he  comes  round 
he  thinks  we  belong  to  a  younger  generation." 

The  Major  always  laughed  at  these  sallies  of  his 
wife.  "You  forget,  my  dear,  my  gray  hairs,"  he 
said. 

"  Gray  hairs  are  a  distinction,"  answered  Madam 
Carroll,  decisively.  "And  besides,  Major,  they're 
the  only  sign  of  age  about  youj  your  figure,  your 
bearing,  are  as  they  always  were." 

And  on  Sundays,  when  he  carried  round  the  plate 
at  St.  John's,  and  at  his  wife's  receptions  once  in  two 
weeks,  this  was  true. 

Sara  came  out  of  her  troubled  revery  at  the  sound 
of  Madam  Carroll's  voice.  This  lady  was  going  on 
with  her  subject,  as  her  step-daughter  had  not  spoken. 

"Yes,  Caroline  Dalley  is  really  very  intelligent; 
she  is  one  of  the  subscribers  for  our  Saturday  Re- 
mew.  You. know  we  subscribe  for  one  copy — about 
twelve  families  of  our  little  circle  here — and  it  goes 
to  all  in  turn,  beginning  with  the  Farms.  The  Ma 
jor  selected  it ;  the  Majo**  prefers  its  tone  to  that  of 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  57 

our  American  journals  as  they  are  at  present.  Not 
that  he  cares  for  the  long  articles.  With  his — his 
wide  experience,  you  know,  the  long  articles  could 
only  be  tiresome ;  they  weary  him  greatly." 

"I  must  have  tired  him,  then,  this  morning;  I 
read  some  of  the  long  articles  aloud." 

"  You  had  forgotten ;  you  have  been  so  long  ab 
sent.  It  was  very  natural,  I  am  sure.  You  will 
soon  recall  those  little  things." 

"How  can  I  recall  what  I  never  knew?  No, 
mamma,  it  is  not  that ;  it  is  the — the  change.  I  am 
perplexed  all  the  time.  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  It  isn't  so  much  what  to  do  as  what  not  to  do," 
replied  Madam  Carroll,  looking  now  at  the  lounge 
she  had  designed,  and  surveying  it  with  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  so  as  to  take  in  its  perspective. 
"  The  Major  has  not  yet  recovered  entirely  from  his 
illness  of  last  winter,  you  know,  and  his  strength 
cannot  be  overtaxed.  A — a  tranquil  solitude  is  the 
best  thing  for  him  most  of  the  time.  I  often  go 
out  of  the  room  myself  purposely,  leaving  him  alone, 
or  with  Scar,  whose  childish  talk,  of  course,  makes 
no  demand  upon  his  attention  ;  I  do  this  to  avoid 
tiring  him." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  tire  him,"  said  Sara. 

The  Major's  wife  glanced  at  her  step-daughter ; 
then  she  resumed  her  consideration  of  the  lounge. 

5 


58  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

"  That  is  because  I  have  been  with  him  so  con 
stantly.  I  have  learned.  You  will  soon  learn  also. 
And  then  we  shall  have  a  very  happy  little  house 
hold  here  at  the  Farms." 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  the  girl,  despondently.  She 
paused.  "I  am  afraid  I  am  a  disappointment  to 
my  father,"  she  went  on,  with  an  effort,  but  unable 
longer  to  abstain  from  putting  her  fear  into  words 
— words  which  should  be  in  substance,  if  not  in 
actual  form,  a  question.  "I  am  afraid  that  as  a 
woman,  no  longer  a  school-girl  or  child,  I  am  not 
what  he  thought  I  should  be,  and  therefore  when 
ever  I  am  with  him  he  is  oppressed  by  this.  Each 
day  I  see  less  of  him  than  I  did  the  day  before. 
There  seems  to  be  no  time  for  me,  no  place.  He 
has  just  told  me  that  all  his  mornings  would  be  oc 
cupied  ;  by  that  he  must  have  meant  simply  that  he 
did  not  want  me"  Tears  had  come  into  her  eyes  as 
she  spoke,  but  she  did  not  let  them  fall. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Madam  Carroll,  earnest 
ly.  Then  in  her  turn  she  paused.  "I  venture  to 
predict  that  soon,  very  soon,  you  will  find  yourself 
indispensable  to  your  father,"  she  added,  in  her  usual 
tone. 

"Never  as  you  are,"  answered  Sara.  She  spoko 
with  a  humility  which,  coming  from  so  proud  a 
girl,  was  touching.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  59 

she  was  acknowledging  her  step  -  mother's  superi 
ority. 

Madam  Carroll  rose,  came  across,  and  kissed  her. 
"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  a  wife  has  more  opportuni 
ties  than  a  daughter  can  have;  that  is  all.  The 
Major  loves  you  as  much  as  ever.  He  is  also  very 
proud  of  you.  So  proud,  indeed,  that  he  has  a  great 
desire  to  have  you  proud  of  him  as  well ;  you  al 
ways  have  been  extremely  proud  of  him,  you  know, 
and  he  remembers  it.  This  feeling  causes  him,  per 
haps,  to  make  something  of — of  an  effort  when  he 
is  with  you,  an  effort  to  appear  in  every  respect  him 
self,  as  he  was  before  his  illness — as  he  was  when 
you  last  saw  him.  This  effort  is  at  times  fatiguing 
to  him ;  yet  it  is  probable  that  he  will  not  relinquish 
it  while  he  feels  that  you  are  noticing  or — or  com 
paring.  I  have  not  spoken  of  this  before,  because 
you  have  never  liked  to  have  me  tell  you  anything 
about  your  father  ;  even  as  a  child  you  always  want 
ed  to  get  your  knowledge  directly  from  him,  not 
from  me.  I  have  never  found  fault  with  this,  be 
cause  I  knew  that  it  came  from  your  great  love  for 
him.  As  I  love  him  too,  I  have  tried  to  please,  or 
at  least  not  to  displease,  his  daughter;  not  to  cross 
her  wishes,  her  ideas ;  not  to  seem  to  her  officious, 
presuming.  Yet  at  the  same  time  remember  that 
I  love  him  probably  as  much  as  you  do.  But  now 


60  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

that  you  have  asked  me,  now  that  I  know  you  wish 
me  to  speak,  I  will  say  that  if  you  could  remove  all 
necessity  for  the  effort  your  father  now  makes,  by 
placing  yourself  so  fully  upon  a  lower  plane — if  I 
may  so  express  it — that  his  former  self  should  not 
be  suggested  to  him  by  anything  in  you,  in  your 
words,  looks,  or  manner,  you  would  soon  find,  I 
think,  that  this  slight — slight  constraint  you  have 
noticed  was  at  an  end.  In  addition,  he  himself 
would  be  more  comfortable.  And  our  dearest  wish 
is  of  course  to  make  him  happy  and  comfortable,  to 
keep  him  so." 

As  she  uttered  these  sentences  quietly,  guardedly, 
Sara  had  grown  very  pale.  Her  eyes,  large  and  dark 
with  pain,  were  searching  her  step-mother's  fair  lit 
tle  face.  But  Madam  Carroll's  gaze  was  fixed  upon 
the  window  opposite ;  not  until  she  had  brought  all 
her  words  to  a  close  did  she  let  it  drop  upon  her 
daughter.  Then  the  two  women  looked  at  each 
other.  The  girl's  eyes  asked  a  mute  question,  a 
question  which  the  wife's  eyes,  seeing  that  it  was 
an  appeal  to  her  closer  knowledge,  at  length  an 
swered — answered  bravely  and  clearly,  sympatheti 
cally,  too,  and  with  tenderness,  but — in  the  affirma 
tive. 

Then  the  daughter  bowed  her  head,  her  face  hid 
den  in  her  hands. 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  61 

Madam  Carroll  sat  down  upon  the  arm  of  the 
eas}7-chair,  and  drew  that  bowed  head  towards  her. 
No  more  words  were  spoken.  But  now  the  daugh 
ter  understood  all.  Her  perplexity  and  her  trouble 
were  at  an  end ;  but  they  ended  in  a  grief,  as  a  river 
ends  in  the  sea — a  grief  that  opened  out  all  round 
her,  overwhelming  the  present,  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
her  then,  the  future  as  well.  Madam  Carroll  said 
nothing ;  the  bereavement  was  there,  and  the  daugh 
ter  must  bear  it.  No  one  could  save  her  from  her 
pain.  But  the  girl  knew  from  this  very  silence,  and 
the  gentle  touch  of  the  hand  upon  her  hair,  that  all 
her  sorrow  was  comprehended,  her  desolation  pitied, 
understood.  For  her  father  had  been  her  idol,  her 
all ;  and  now  he  was  taken  from  her.  His  mind  was 
failing.  This  was  the  bereavement  which  had  fallen 
upon  her  heart  and  life. 


FOR  THE  MAJOR, 


CHAPTEE  III. 

AT  sunset  of  the  same  day  Madam  Carroll  was  in 
her  dining-room;  she  had  changed  her  dress,  and 
now  wore  a  fresh  muslin,  with  a  bunch  of  violets 
in  her  belt.  Sara,  coining  down  the  stairs,  saw  the 
bright  little  figure  through  the  open  door;  Judith 
Inches  was  bringing  in  the  kettle  (for  Madam  Car 
roll  always  made  the  tea  herself),  and  on  the  table 
were  one  or  two  hot  dishes  of  a  delicate  sort,  addi 
tions  to  the  usual  meal.  Sara  recognized  in  these 
added  dishes  the  never -failing  touch  of  the  mis 
tress's  hand  upon  the  household  helm.  The  four- 
o'clock  dinner  had  come  and  gone,  but  no  summons 
had  been  sent  to  her — that  pitiless  summons  which 
in  so  many  households  remains  inflexible,  though 
stricken  hearts  may  be  longing  for  solitude,  for  a 
respite,  however  brief,  from  the  petty  duties  of  the 
day.  Through  the  long  hours  of  the  afternoon  there 
had  been  no  knock,  not  so  much  even  as  a  footstep 
outside  her  door.  But  now,  in  the  cool  of  the  even 
ing,  the  one  who  had  thus  protected  her  seclusion 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  63 

was  hoping  that  she  would  of  her  own  accord  come 
down  and  take  again  her  accustomed  place  at  the 
family  table.  Sara  did  this.  She  did  more.  She 
had  put  away  the  signs  of  her  grief  so  completely 
that,  save  for  an  added  pallor  and  the  dark  half- 
circle  under  her  eyes,  she  was  quite  herself  again. 
Her  soft  hair  was  smooth,  her  black  dress  made  less 
severe  by  a  little  white  scarf  which  encircled  the 
narrow  linen  collar.  Scar  was  sitting  on  the  bottom 
stair  as  she  came  down.  She  put  her  hand  on  his 
head.  "Where  is  papa?"  she  said. 

"  Papa  is  in  the  library.  I  think  he  is  not  coming 
out  to  tea,"  answered  the  child. 

"  Oh,  but  we  must  make  him  come — the  dining- 
room  is  so  dull  without  papa.  Let  us  go  and  ask 
him."  She  took  his  hand,  and  they  went  together 
to  the  library.  Madam  Carroll,  who  had  heard 
their  words  through  the  open  door,  watched  them 
go.  She  did  not  interfere.  She  told  Judith  Inches 
to  take  back  the  hot  dishes  to  the  kitchen. 

The  Major  was  sitting  in  his  easy-chair,  looking 
at  the  pictures  in  an  old  book.  He  closed  the  vol 
ume  and  hastily  drew  off  his  spectacles  as  his  daugh 
ter  came  in.  "It  has  been  a  beautiful  afternoon," 
he  remarked,  speaking  promptly  and  decidedly. 
"  Have  you  been  out  ?  or  were  you  at  home  with  a 
book — in  your  old  way  ?  What  do  you  find  to  read 


64  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

nowadays?  /find  almost  nothing."  And  he  folded 
his  arms  with  a  critical  air. 

"  I  find  little  that  can  be  compared  with  the  old 
English  authors,  the  ones  you  like,"  answered  his 
daughter.  "  The  old  books  are  better  than  the  new." 

"  So  they  are,  so  they  are,"  replied  the  Major,  with 
satisfaction.  "  I  have  often  made  the  remark  myself." 

"Now  that  I  am  at  home  again,"  continued  Sara, 
"I  want  to  look  over  all  those  old  books  I  used  to 
have  before  I  went  to  Longfields — those  that  were 
called  mine.  I  hope  we  have  them  still  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Scar,  in  his  deliberate  little  voice, 
"  we  have.  I  read  them  now.  And  the  long  words 
I  look  out  in  the  dictionary." 

"  It  is  a  very  good  exercise  for  him.  I  suggested 
it,"  said  the  Major. 

"  I  want  to  see  all  their  old  pictures  again,"  pur 
sued  Sara.  "  I  know  I  shall  care  a  great  deal  about 
them ;  they  will  be  like  dear  old  friends." 

"  Very  natural ;  I  quite  understand  the  feeling," 
said  the  Major,  encouragingly.  "  And  as  Scar  reads 
the  books,  perhaps  you  will  find  some  of  them  lying 
about  this  very  room.  Let  me  see — didn't  I  have 
one  just  now  ?  Yes,  here  it  is ;  what  was  it  ?"  And 
taking  up  the  volume  he  had  laid  down  a  moment 
before,  he  opened  it,  and  read,  or  repeated  with  the 
air  of  reading  (for  his  .spectacles  were  off),  " '  The 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  65 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe  and  his 
Servant-man  Friday.  Defoe.  London.' ': 

Sara  carne  to  his  side  and  looked  at  the  title-page. 
"  Yes,  that  is  my  dear  old  book.  I  loved  it  better 
than  any  other,  excepting,  perhaps,  '  Good  Queen 
Bertha's  Honey-Broth.'  I  wonder  if  the  old  pict 
ures  are  all  there  ?" 

"  I  think  they  are,"  said  the  Major,  turning  the 
leaves.  They  looked  at  one  or  two  together,  re 
calling  reminiscences  of  the  days  when  she  used  to 
talk  about  them  as  a  child.  "  You  always  insisted 
that  this  print  of  Friday's  foot  was  not  of  the  right 
shape,  and  once  you  even  went  out  in  the  garden, 
took  off  your  shoe  and  stocking,  and  made  a  print 
in  a  flower-bed  to  show  me,"  said  the  Major,  laugh 
ing. 

"  Let  us  look  them  all  over  after  tea,  and  '  Good 
Queen  Bertha '  too,"  said  Sara.  "  For  Scar  and  I 
have  come  to  take  you  out  to  tea,  father ;  the  din 
ing-room  is  so  dull  without  you.  Besides,  I  want 
you  to  give  me  some  peach  preserves,  and  then  say, 
4  No,  Sara,  not  again,'  when  I  ask  for  more ;  and 
then,  after  a  few  minutes,  put  a  large  table-spoonful 
on  my  plate  with  your  head  turned  away,  while 
talking  to  some  one  else,  as  though  unconscious  of 
what  you  were  doing." 

Scar  laughed  over  this  anecdote,  and  so  did  Scar's 


66  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

father.     "  But  perhaps  we  shall  have  no  peach  pre 
serve,"  he  said,  rising. 

"  We  will  ask  mamma  to  give  us  some,"  answered 
Sara.  She  took  his  arm,  and  Scar  took  his  other 
hand ;  thus  together  they  entered  the  dining-room. 

Madam  Carroll  welcomed  them ;  but  placidly,  as 
though  the  Major's  coming  was  a  matter  of  course. 
Since  his  daughter's  return,  however,  it  had  not 
been  a  matter  of  course :  first  for  this  reason,  then 
for  that,  his  meals  had  almost  always  been  sent  to 
the  library.  Now  he  was  tired  ;  and  now  the  din 
ing-room  floor  might  be  damp  after  Judith  Inches' 
scrubbing-brush ;  now  there  was  an  east  wind,  and 
now  there  was  a  west;  or  else  he  was  not  feeling 
well,  and  some  one  might  "  drop  in,"  in  which  case, 
as  the  dining-room  opened  only  into  the  hall,  wThich 
was  wide,  like  a  room,  he  should  not  be  able  to  es 
cape.  In  actual  fact,  however,  there  was  very  little 
"dropping  in"  at  Carroll  Farms,  unless  one  should 
give  that  name  to  the  visits  of  the  rector,  Mr.  Owen. 
Once  in  a  while,  in  the  evening,  when  the  weather 
was  decisively  pleasant,  the  junior  warden  came  to 
see  them.  But  all  their  other  acquaintances  came 
to  the  receptions,  made  a  brief  call  upon  the  first 
Thursday  afternoon  following,  and  that  was  all. 
The  sweet  little  mistress  of  the  mansion  had  never 
uttered  one  syllable  upon  the  subject,  yet  each 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  67 

member  of  the  circle  of  Far  Edgerley  society  knew 
as  well  as  though  it  had  been  proclaimed  through 
the  town  by  a  herald  with  a  silver  trumpet  em 
blazoned  with  the  Carroll  arms,  that  these  bimonth 
ly  receptions  (which  were  so  delightful)  and  the  brief 
following  call  comprised  all  the  visits  they  were  ex 
pected  to  pay  at  Carroll  Farms.  And  surety,  when 
one  considered  the  great  pleasure  and  also  improve 
ment  derived  from  these  receptions,  the  four  visits 
a  month  at  the  Farms  were  worth  more  than  forty 
times  four  visits  at  any  other  residence  in  the  vil 
lage  or  its  neighborhood.  True,  Mrs.  Hibbard  en 
deavored  to  maintain  an  appearance  of  importance 
at  her  mansion  of  yellow  wood  called  Chapultepec ; 
but  as  General  Hibbard  (of  the  Mexican  War)  had 
now  been  dead  eight  years,  and  as  his  old  house 
had  not  been  opened  for  so  much  as  the  afternoon 
sewing  society  since  his  departure,  its  importance, 
socially  considered,  existed  only  in  the  imagination 
of  his  relict — which  was,  however,  in  itself  quite  a 
domain. 

Judith  Inches,  tall  and  serious,  now  brought  back 
the  hot  dishes,  Madam  Carroll  made  the  tea  (with 
many  pretty  little  motions  and  attitudes,  which  her 
husband  watched),  and  the  meal  began.  The  Major 
was  in  excellent  spirits.  He  told  stories  of  Sara's 
childhood,  her  obstinacy,  her  never-failing  questions. 


68  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

"  She  came  to  me  once,  Scar,"  he  said,  "  and  an 
nounced  that  Galileo  was  a  humbug.  "When  I  asked 
her  why,  she  said  that  there  was  good  King  David, 
who  knew  all  about  astronomy  long  before  he  did ; 
for  didn't  he  say,  '  the  round  world,  and  they  that 
dwell  therein'  ?  We  sang  it  every  Sunday.  So  that 
proved  plain  as  day  that  David  knew  that  the  world 
was  round,  and  that  it  moved,  and  all  about  it,  of 
course.  Yet  here  was  this  old  Italian  taking  every 
thing  to  himself  !  Just  like  Amerigo  Yespucci,  ai^ 
other  old  Italian,  who  had  all  America  named  after 
himself,  leaving  poor  Columbus,  the  real  discoverer, 
with  nothing  but  f  Hail,  Columbia  !'  to  show  for  it. 
She  announced  all  this  triumphantly  and  at  the  top 
of  her  voice,  from  a  window ;  for  I  was  in  the  gar 
den.  When  I  told  her  that  the  word  '  round,'  upon 
which  all  her  argument  had  been  founded,  was  not 
in  the  original  text,  you  should  have  seen  how  crest 
fallen  she  was.  She  said  she  should  never  sing  that 
chant  again." 

Scar  laughed  over  this  story.  He  did  not  laugh 
often,  but  when  he  did,  it  was  a  happy  little  sound, 
which  made  every  one  join  in  it  by  its  merry  glee. 

"I  am  afraid  I  was  a  very  self -conceited  little 
girl,  Scar,"  his  sister  said. 

As  the  meal  went  on,  the  Major's  manner  grew 
all  the  time  more  easy.  His  eyes  were  no  longer 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  69 

restless.  His  old  attention  returned,  too,  in  a  meas 
ure;  he  kept  watch  of  his  wife's  plate  to  ask  if  she 
would  not  have  something  more ;  he  remembered 
that  Sara  preferred  bread  to  the  beat  biscuit,  and 
placed  it  near  her.  The  meal  ended,  they  went  back 
to  the  library.  Sara  found  her  old  copy  of  "  Good 
Queen  Bertha's  Honey  -  Broth,"  and  she  and  her 
father  looked  at  the  pictures  together,  as  well  as  at 
those  of  "Robinson  Crusoe."  Each  had  its  associa 
tion,  a  few  recalled  by  him,  but  many  more  by  her. 
After  Scar  had  gone  to  bed,  and  the  books  had  been 
laid  aside,  she  still  sat  there  talking  to  him.  She 
talked  of  her  life  at  Longfields,  telling  stories  in 
connection  with  it  —  stories  not  long  —  bright  and 
amusing.  The  Major's  wife  meanwhile  sat  near 
them,  sewing  ;  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the  lamp,  in 
order  that  the  light  might  fall  over  her  shoulder 
upon  the  seam.  The  light  did  the  work  she  assigned 
to  it,  but  it  also  took  the  opportunity  to  play  over 
her  curls  in  all  sorts  of  winsome  ways,  to  gleam  on 
her  thimble,  to  glide  down  her  rosy  muslin  skirt, 
and  touch  her  little  slipper.  She  said  hardly  any 
thing  ;  but,  as  they  talked  on,  every  now  and  then 
she  looked  up  appreciatively,  and  smiled.  At  last 
she  folded  up  her  work,  replacing  it  in  her  neat  rose- 
lined  work-basket ;  then  she  sat  still  in  her  low  chair, 
with  her  feet  on  a  footstool,  listening. 


70  FOR  THE  MAJOR 

The  old  clock,  with  its  fierce  gilt  corsair  climbing 
over  a  glass  rock,  struck  ten. 

"  Bed-time,"  said  Sara,  pausing. 

"  Not  for  me,"  observed  the  Major.  "  My  time 
for  sleep  is  always  brief ;  five  or  six  hours  are  quite 
enough." 

"  I  remember,"  said  his  daughter.  And  the  mem 
ory,  as  a  memory,  was  a  true  one.  Until  recently  the 
Major's  sleep  had  been  as  he  described  it.  He  had 
forgotten,  or  rather  he  had  never  been  conscious  of, 
the  long  nights  of  twelve  or  thirteen  hours'  rest 
which  had  now  become  a  necessity  to  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  like  you,  father.  I  am 
very  apt  to  be  sleepy  about  ten,"  said  Sara.  "  And 
I  suspect  it  is  the  same  with  mamma." 

Madam  Carroll  did  not  deny  this  assertion.  The 
Major,  laughing  at  the  early  somnolence  of  the  two 
ladies,  rose  to  light  a  candle  for  his  daughter,  in  the 
old  way.  As  she  took  it,  and  bent  to  kiss  her  step 
mother  good-night,  Madam  Carroll's  eyes  met  hers, 
full  of  an  expression  which  made  them  bright  (ordi 
narily  they  were  not  bright,  but  soft) ;  the  expression 
was  that  of  warm  congratulation. 

The  next  day  dawned  fair  and  cloudless — Trinity 
Sunday.  The  mountain  breeze  and  the  warm  sun 
together  made  an  atmosphere  fit  for  a  heaven.  On 
the  many  knolls  of  Far  fMgerley  the  tall  grass,  car- 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  71 

rying  with  it  the  slender  stalks  of  the  buttercups, 
was  bending  and  waving  merrily  ;  the  red  clover, 
equally  abundant,  could  not  join  in  this  dance,  be 
cause  it  had  crowded  itself  so  greedily  into  the  de 
sirable  fields  that  all  that  its  close  ranks  could  do 
was  to  undulate  a  little  at  the  top,  like  a  swell  pass 
ing  over  a  pond.  Madam  Carroll,  the  Major,  and 
Scar  were  to  drive  to  church  as  usual,  in  the  equi 
page.  Sara  had  preferred  to  walk.  She  started 
some  time  before  the  hour  for  service,  having  a 
fancy  to  stroll  under  the  churchyard  pines  for  a 
while  by  herself.  These  pines  were  noble  trees ; 
they  had  belonged  to  the  primitive  forest,  and  had 
been  left  standing  along  the  northern  border  of  the 
churchyard  by  the  Carroll  who  had  first  given  the 
land  for  the  church  a  hundred  years  before.  The 
ground  beneath  them  was  covered  with  a  thick  car 
pet  of  their  own  brown  aromatic  needles.  There 
were  no  graves  here  save  one,  of  an  Indian  chief, 
who  slept  by  himself  with  his  face  towards  the  west, 
while  all  his  white  brethren  on  the  other  side  turned 
their  closed  eyes  towards  the  rising  sun.  It  was 
a  beautiful  rural  God's-acre,  stretching  round  the 
church  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  so  that  the  shadow 
of  the  cross  on  the  spire  passed  slowly  over  all  the 
graves,  one  by  one,  as  the  sun  made  his  journey 
from  the  peak  of  Chillawassee  across  to  Lonely 


72  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

Mountain,  behind  whose  long  soft  line  he  always 
gank,  and  generally  in  such  a  blaze  of  beautiful  light 
that  the  children  of  the  village  grew  up  in  the  vague 
belief  that  the  edge  of  the  world  must  be  just  there, 
that  there  it  rounded  and  went  downward  into  a 
mysterious  golden  atmosphere,  in  which,  some  day, 
when  they  had  wings,  they,  too,  should  sport  and 
float  like  birds. 

Early  though  it  was,  Miss  Carroll  discovered  when 
she  entered  the  church  gate  that  she  was  not  the 
first  comer ;  the  choir  ladies  were  practising  within, 
and  other  ladies  of  floral  if  not  musical  tastes  were 
arranging  mountain  laurel  in  the  font  and  chancel — 
to  the  manifest  disapproval  of  Flower,  the  disap 
proval  being  expressed  in  the  eye  he  had  fixed  upon 
them,  his  "  mountain  e}Te,"  as  he  called  his  best  one. 
"It  be  swep,  and  it  be  dustered,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  What  more  do  the  reasonless  female  creatures 
want  ?"  Miss  Carroll  had  not  joined  the  choir,  al 
though  the  rector,  prompted  by  his  junior  warden, 
had  suggested  it ;  Miss  Sophia  Greer  would,  there 
fore,  continue  to  sing  the  solos  undisturbed.  She 
was  trying  one  now.  And  the  other  ladies  were 
talking.  But  this  music,  this  conversation,  this  ar 
rangement  of  laurel,  and  this  disapproval  of  Flower 
went  on  within  the  church.  The  new-comer  had  the 
churchyard  to  herself ;  .she  went  over  to  the  pines 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  73 

on  its  northern  side,  and  strolled  to  and  fro  at  the 
edge  of  the  slope,  looking  at  the  mountains,  whose 
peaks  rose  like  a  grand  amphitheatre  all  round  her 
against  the  sky. 

Her  face  was  sad,  but  the  bitterness,  the  revolt, 
were  gone ;  her  eyes  were  quiet  and  sweet.  She  had 
accepted  her  sorrow.  It  was  a  great  one.  At  first 
it  had  been  overwhelming ;  for  all  the  brightness 
of  the  past  had  depended  upon  her  father,  all  her 
plans  for  the  present,  her  hopes  for  the  future.  His 
help,  his  comprehension,  his  dear  affection  and  inter 
est,  had  made  up  all  her  life,  and  she  did  not  know 
how  to  go  on  without  them,  how  to  live.  Never 
again  could  she  depend  upon  him  for  guidance, 
never  again  have  the  exquisite  happiness  of  his  per 
fect  sympathy — for  he  had  always  understood  her, 
and  no  one  else  ever  had,  or  at  least  so  she  thought. 
She  had  cared  only  for  him,  she  had  found  all  her 
companionship  in  him ;  and  now  she  was  left  alone. 

But  after  a  while  Love  rose,  and  turned  back  this 
tide.  The  sharp  personal  pain,  the  bitter  loneliness, 
gave  way  to  a  new  tenderness  for  the  stricken  man 
himself.  Evidently  he  was  at  times  partly  conscious 
of  this  lethargy  which  was  fettering  more  and  more 
his  mental  powers,  for  he  exerted  himself,  he  tried 
to  remember,  he  tried  to  be  brighter,  to  talk  in  the 
old  way.  And  who  could  tell  but  that  he  perceived 

6 


74  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

his  failure  to  accomplish  this?  Who  could  tell, 
when  he  was  silent  so  often,  sitting  with  his  eyes  on 
the  carpet,  that  he  was  not  brooding  over  it  sadly  ? 
For  a  man  such  as  he  had  been,  this  must  be  deep 
suffering — deep,  even  though  vague — like  the  sensa 
tion  of  falling  in  a  dream,  falling  from  a  height,  and 
continuing  to  fall,  without  ever  reaching  bottom. 
Probably  he  did  not  catch  the  full  reality  ;  it  con 
stantly  eluded  him ;  yet  every  now  and  then  some 
power  of  his  once  fine  mind  might  be  awake  long 
enough  to  make  him  conscious  of  a  lack,  a  some 
thing  that  gave  him  pain,  he  knew  not  why.  As  she 
thought  of  this,  all  her  heart  went  out  to  him  with 
a  loving,  protecting  tenderness  which  no  words  could 
express ;  she  forgot  her  own  grief  in  thinking  of  his, 
and  her  trouble  took  the  form  of  a  passionate  desire 
to  make  him  happy ;  to  keep  even  this  dim  con 
sciousness  always  from  him,  if  possible ;  to  shield 
him  from  contact  with  the  thoughtless  and  unfeel 
ing  ;  to  so  surround  his  life  with  love,  like  a  wall, 
that  he  should  never  again  remember  anything  of 
his  loss,  never  again  feel  that  inarticulate  pain,  but 
be  like  one  who  has  entered  a  beautiful,  tranquil  gar 
den,  to  leave  it  no  more. 

This  morning,  under  the  pines,  she  was  thinking 
of  all  this,  as  she  walked  slowly  to  and  fro  past  the 
Indian's  grave.  Flower  came  out  to  ring  his  first 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  75 

bell.  His  "first  bell"  was  unimportant,  made  up  of 
short,  business-like  notes ;  he  rang  it  in  his  working 
jacket,  an  old  mountain  homespun  coat,  whose  swal 
low-tails  had  been  cut  off,  so  that  it  now  existed  as 
a  roundabout.  But  when,  twenty  minutes  later,  he 
issued  forth  a  second  time,  he  was  attired  in  a  coat 
of  thin  but  shining  black,  with  butternut  trousers 
and  a  high  pink  calico  vest.  Placing  his  hat  upon 
the  ground  beside  him,  he  took  the  rope  in  his  hand, 
made  a  solemn  grimace  or  two  to  get  his  mouth  into 
position,  and  then,  closing  his  eyes,  brought  out  with 
gravity  the  first  stroke  of  his  "  second  bell."  His 
second  bell  consisted  of  dignified  solo  notes,  with 
long  pauses  between.  Flower's  theory  was  that  each 
of  these  notes  echoed  resonantly  through  its  follow 
ing  pause.  But  as  the  bell  of  St.  John's  was  not  one 
of  size  or  resonance,  he  could  only  make  the  pauses 
for  the  echoes  which  should  have  been  there. 

As  the  first  note  of  this  second  bell  sounded  from 
the  elm,  all  the  Episcopal  doors  of  Far  Edgerley 
opened  almost  simultaneously,  and  forth  came  the 
congregation,  pacing  with  Sunday  step  down  their 
respective  front  paths,  opening  their  gates,  and  pro 
ceeding  decorously  towards  St.  John's  in  groups  of 
two  or  three,  or  a  family  party  of  father,  mother, 
and  children,  the  father  a  little  in  advance.  They 
all  arrived  in  good  season,  passed  the  semi-uncon- 


76  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

scious  Flower  ringing  his  bell,  and  entered  the  church. 
Next,  after  an  interval,  came  "  clatter,"  "  clatter  :" 
the}7  knew  that  "  the  equipage "  was  coming  up 
the  hill.  Then  "  clank,"  "  clank :"  the  steps  were 
down. 

All  now  turned  their  heads,  but  only  to  the  angle 
which  was  considered  allowable  —  less  than  profile, 
about  a  quarter  view  of  the  face,  with  a  side  glance 
from  one  eye.  To  them,  thus  waiting,  now  entered 
their  senior  warden,  freshly  dressed,  gloved,  carry 
ing  his  hat  and  his  large  prayer-book;  and  as  he 
walked  up  the  central  aisle,  a  commanding  figure, 
with  noble  head,  gray  hair,  and  military  bearing,  he 
was  undoubtedly  a  remarkably  handsome,  distin 
guished-looking  man. 

Behind  him,  but  not  too  near,  came  the  small  fig 
ures  of  Madam  Carroll  and  Scar,  the  lady  in  a  sim 
ple  summer  costume  of  lavender  muslin,  with  many 
breezy  little  ruffles,  and  lavender  ribbons  on  her 
gypsy  hat,  the  delicate  hues  causing  the  junior  war 
den  to  exclaim  (afterwards)  that  she  looked  like  "  a 
hyacinth,  sir ;  a  veritable  hyacinth !"  Scar,  in  a 
black  velvet  jacket  (she  had  made  it  for  him  out  of 
an  old  cloak),  carrying  his  little  straw  hat,  held  his 
mother's  hand.  The  Major  stopped  at  his  pew, 
which  was  the  first,  near  the  chancel ;  he  turned, 
and  stood  waiting  ceremoniously  for  his  wife  to 


FOR   THE  MAJOR.  77 

enter.  She  passed  in  with  Scar ;  lie  followed,  and 
they  took  their  seats.  Then  the  congregation  let 
its  chin  return  to  a  normal  straightness,  the  bell 
stopped,  Alexander  Mann  (to  use  his  own  expres 
sion)  "blew  up,"  and  Miss  Millie  began. 

Miss  Carroll  came  in  a  minute  or  two  late.  But 
there  was  no  longer  much  curiosity  about  Miss  Car 
roll.  It  was  feared  that  she  was  "  cold ;"  and  it  was 
known  that  she  was  "silent;"  she  had  almost  no 
"conversation."  Now,  Far  Edgerley  prided  itself 
upon  its  conversation.  It  never  spoke  of  its  domes 
tic  affairs  in  company;  light  topics  of  elegant  nat 
ure  were  then  in  order.  Mrs.  Greer,  for  instance, 
had  Horace  Walpole's  Letters — which  never  failed. 
Other  ladies  preferred  the  cultivation  of  flowers, 
garden  rock-work,  and  their  bees  (they  allowed  them 
selves  to  go  as  far  as  bees,  because  honey,  though  of 
course  edible,  was  so  delicate).  Mrs.  Rendlesham, 
who  was  historical,  had  made  quite  a  study  of  the 
characteristics  of  Archbishop  Laud.  And  the  Misses 
Farren  were  greatly  interested  in  Egyptian  ceram 
ics.  Senator  Ashley,  among  many  subjects,  had  also 
his  favorite ;  he  not  infrequently  turned  his  talent 
for  talking  loose  upon  the  Crimean  War.  This  was 
felt  to  be  rather  a  modern  topic.  But  the  junior 
warden  was,  on  the  whole,  the  most  modern  man 
they  had.  Too  modern,  some  persons  thought. 


78  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

JULY  passed,  and  August  began.  Sara  Carroll  had 
spent  the  weeks  in  trying  to  add  to  her  father's  com 
fort,  and  trying  also  to  alter  herself  so  fully,  when 
with  him,  that  she  should  no  longer  be  a  burden 
upon  his  expectation,  a  care  upon  his  mind.  In  the 
first  of  these  attempts  she  was  and  could  be  but  an 
assistant,  and  a  subordinate  one,  filling  the  interstices 
left  by  Madam  Carroll.  For  the  Major  depended 
more  and  more  each  day  upon  his  little  wife.  Her 
remarks  always  interested  him,  her  voice  he  always 
liked  to  hear ;  he  liked  to  know  all  she  was  doing, 
and  where  she  went,  and  what  people  said  to  her ; 
he  liked  to  look  at  her;  her  bright  little  gowns  and 
sunny  curls  pleased  his  eye,  and  made  him  feel  young 
again,  so  he  said.  He  had  come,  too,  to  have  a  great 
pride  in  her,  and  this  pride  had  grown  dear  to  him ; 
it  now  made  one  of  the  important  ingredients  of  his 
life.  He  liked  to  mention  what  a  fine  education  she 
had  had ;  he  liked  to  say  that  her  mother  had  been 
a  "Forster  of  Forster's  Island,"  and  that  her  father 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  79 

was  an  Episcopal  clergyman  who  had  "received  his 
education  at  Oxford."  He  thought  little  Scar  had 
"  English  traits,"  and  these  he  enumerated.  He  had 
always  been  a  proud  man,  and  now  his  pride  had 
centred  itself  in  her.  But  if  his  pride  was  strong, 
his  affection  was  stronger;  he  was  always  content 
when  she  was  in  the  room,  and  he  never  liked  to 
have  her  long  absent.  When  he  was  tired,  she  knew 
it ;  he  was  not  obliged  to  explain.  All  his  moods 
she  comprehended ;  he  was  not  obliged  to  define 
them.  And  when  he  did  appear  in  public,  at  church 
on  Sundays,  or  at  her  receptions,  it  was  she  upon 
whom  he  relied,  who  kept  herself  mentally  as  well 
as  in  person  by  his  side,  acting  as  quick-witted  out 
rider,  warding  off  possible  annoyance,  guiding  the 
conversation  towards  the  track  he  preferred,  guard 
ing  his  entrances  and  exits,  so  that  above  all  and 
through  all  her  other  duties  and  occupations,  his 
ease  and  his  pleasure  were  always  made  secure. 

Of  all  this  his  daughter  became  aware  only  by 
degrees.  It  went  on  so  unobtrusively,  invisibly  al 
most,  that  only  when  she  had  begun  to  study  the 
subject  of  her  father's  probable  needs  in  connection 
with  herself,  what  she  could  do  to  add  to  his  com 
fort,  only  then  did  she  comprehend  the  importance 
of  these  little  hourly  actions  of  Madam  Carroll,  com 
prehend  what  a  safeguard  they  kept  all  the  time 


80  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

round  his  tranquillity,  how  indispensable  they  were 
to  his  happiness.  For  the  feeling  he  had  had  with 
regard  to  his  daughter  extended,  though  in  a  less 
degree,  to  all  Far  Edgerley  society ;  he  wished — and 
it  was  now  his  greatest  wish — to  appear  at  his  best 
when  any  one  saw  him.  And,  thanks  to  the  devo 
tion  and  tact  of  his  wife,  to  her  watchfulness  (which 
never  seemed  to  watch),  to  the  unceasing  protection 
she  had  thrown  round  his  seclusion,  and  the  quiet 
but  masterly  support  she  gave  when  he  did  appear, 
no  one  in  the  village  was  as  yet  aware  that  any 
change  had  come  to  the  Major,  save  a  somewhat 
invalid  condition,  the  result  of  his  illness  of  the  pre 
ceding  winter. 

Sara  herself  had  now  learned  how  much  this  opin 
ion  of  the  Far  Edgerley  public  was  to  her  father ; 
he  rested  on  Saturday  almost  all  day  in  order  to 
prepare  for  Sunday,  and  the  same  preparation  was 
made  before  each  of  the  receptions.  At  these  re 
ceptions  she  could  now  be  of  use ;  she  could  take 
Madam  Carroll's  place  from  time  to  time,  stand  be 
side  him  and  keep  other  people  down  to  his  topics, 
prevent  interruptions  and  sudden  changes  of  sub 
ject,  move  with  him  through  the  rooms,  as,  with 
head  erect  and  one  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
he  passed  from  group  to  group,  having  a  few  words 
with  each,  and  so  much  in  the  old  way  that  when 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  81 

at  length  he  retired,  excusing  himself  on  account  of 
his  health,  he  left  unbroken  the  impression  which 
all  Far  Edgerley  cherished,  the  impression  of  his 
distinguished  appearance,  charming  conversation,  and 
polished,  delightful  manners. 

During  these  weeks,  the  more  his  daughter  had 
studied  him  and  the  ways  to  make  herself  of  use  to 
him,  even  if  not  a  pleasure,  the  greater  had  become 
her  admiration  for  the  little  woman  who  was  his 
wife — who  did  it  all,  and  so  thoroughly  !  who  did 
it  all,  and  so  tenderly!  What  she,  the  daughter, 
with  all  her  great  love  for  him,  could  think  out  only 
with  careful  effort,  the  wife  divined ;  what  she  did 
with  too  much  earnestness,  the  wife  did  easily,  light 
ly.  Her  own  words  when  she  was  with  him  were 
considered,  planned ;  but  the  wife's  talk  flowed  on 
as  naturally  and  brightly  as  though  she  had  never 
given  a  thought  to  adapting  it  to  him ;  yet  always 
was  it  perfectly  adapted.  Sara  often  sat  looking  at 
Madam  Carroll,  during  these  days,  with  a  wonder  at 
her  own  long  blindness;  a  wonder  also  that  such  a 
woman  should  have  borne  always  in  silence,  and 
with  unfailing  gentleness,  her  step-daughter's  moder 
ate  and  somewhat  patronizing  estimate  of  her.  But 
even  while  she  was  thinking  of  these  things  Madam 
Carroll  would  perhaps  rise  and  cross  the  room,  stop 
ping  to  pat  dog  Carlo  on  the  rug  as  she  passed,  and 


82  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

she  would  seem  so  small  and  young,  her  very  pretti- 
ness  so  unlike  the  countenance  and  expression  one 
associates  with  a  strong  character,  that  the  daughter 
would  unconsciously  fall  back  into  her  old  opinion 
of  her,  always,  however,  to  emerge  from  it  again  hur 
riedly,  remorsefully,  almost  reverentially,  upon  the 
next  example  of  the  exquisite  tact,  tenderness,  and 
care  with  which  she  surrounded  and  propped  up  her 
husband's  broken  days. 

But  the  Major's  life  was  now  very  comfortable. 
His  daughter,  if  she  had  not  as  yet  succeeded  in 
doing  what  she  did  without  thought  over  it,  had,  at 
least,  gradually  succeeded  in  relieving  him  from  all 
feeling  of  uneasiness  in  her  society :  she  now  came  and 
went  as  freely  as  Scar.  She  had  made  her  manner  so 
completely  unexpectant  and  (apparently)  unobserv 
ant,  she  had  placed  herself  so  entirely  on  a  line  with 
him  as  he  was  at  present,  that  nothing  led  him  to 
think  of  making  an  effort;  he  had  forgotten  that 
he  had  ever  made  one.  She  talked  to  him  on  local 
subjects,  generally  adding  some  little  comment  that 
amused  him ;  she  had  items  about  the  garden  and 
fields  or  dog  Carlo  to  tell  him ;  but  most  of  all  she 
talked  to  him  of  the  past,  and  led  him  to  talk  of  it. 
For  the  Major  had  a  much  clearer  remembrance  of 
his  boyhood  and  youth  than  he  had  of  the  events  of 
later  years,  and  not  only  a  clearer  remembrance,  but 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  83 

a  greater  interest ;  he  liked  to  relate  bis  adventures 
of  those  days,  and  often  did  it  with  spirit  and  zest. 
He  was  willing  now  to  have  her  present  at  "  Scar's 
lessons ;"  she  formed  sentences  in  her  turn  from  the 
chivalrous  little  manuscript  book,  and  took  part  in 
the  game  of  dominoes  that  followed.  The  Major 
grew  into  the  habit  also  of  taking  an  afternoon  walk 
with  her  about  the  grounds — always  at  a  safe  dis 
tance  from  the  entrance  gate.  They  went  to  visit 
the  birds'  nests  she  had  discovered,  and  count  the 
eggs  or  fledglings,  and  he  recalled  his  boyhood 
knowledge  of  birds,  which  was  clear  and  accurate; 
they  went  down  to  the  pond  made  by  the  brook, 
and  sent  in  dog  Carlo  for  a  bath ;  they  strolled 
through  the  orchard  to  see  how  the  apples  were 
coming  on,  and  sat  for  a  while  on  a  bench  under 
the  patriarch  tree.  These  walks  became  very  pre 
cious  to  the  daughter ;  her  father  enjoyed  them, 
enjoyed  so  much  the  summer  atmosphere,  pure  and 
fresh  and  high,  yet  aromatic  also  with  the  scents 
from  the  miles  of  unbroken  pine  and  fir  forest 
round  about,  enjoyed  so  much  looking  at  the  moun 
tains,  noting  the  moving  bands  of  light  and  shadow 
cast  upon  their  purple  sides  as  the  white  clouds 
sailed  slowly  across  the  sky,  that  sometimes  for  an 
hour  at  a  time  he  would  almost  be  his  former  self 
again.  He  knew  this  when  it  happened,  and  it  made 


84  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

him  happy.  And  Sara  was  so  glad  to  see  him  happy 
that  she  began  to  feel,  and  with  surprise,  as  if  she 
herself  too  might  be  really  happy  again,  happy  after 
all. 

This  first  little  beginning  of  happiness  grew  and 
budded  like  a  flower;  for  now  more  and  more  her 
father  asked  for  her,  wanted  her  with  him ;  he  took 
her  arm  as  they  walked  about  the  grounds,  and  she 
felt  as  glad  and  proud  as  a  child  because  she  was 
tall  enough  and  strong  enough  to  be  of  real  use  to 
him.  She  remembered  the  desolation  of  those  hours 
when  she  had  thought  that  she  should  never  be  of 
use  to  him  again,  should  have  no  place  beside  him, 
should  be  to  him  only  a  care  and  a  dread ;  thinking 
of  this,  she  was  very  thankfully  happy.  When  she 
could  do  something  for  him,  and  he  was  pleased,  it 
seemed  to  her  almost  as  if  she  had  never  loved  him 
so  much  ;  for,  added  to  her  old  strong  affection,  there 
was  now  that  deep  and  sacred  tenderness  which  fills 
the  heart  when  the  person  one  loves  becomes  de 
pendent — trustingly  dependent,  like  a  little  child — 
upon  one's  hourly  thought  and  care. 

The  rector  of  St.  John's  had  continued  those  vis 
its  which  Miss  Carroll  had  criticised  as  too  frequent. 
When  he  came  he  seldom  saw  his  senior  warden ; 
but  the  non-appearance  was  sufficiently  excused  by 
the  state  of  the  senior-  warden's  health,  as  well  as 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  85 

made  up  for  by  the  presence  of  his  wife.  For  Mad 
am  Carroll  was  charming  in  her  manner  to  the  young 
clergyman,  always  giving  him  the  kind  of  welcome 
which  made  him  feel  sure  that  she  was  glad  to  see 
him,  and  that  she  wished  him  to  come  again.  As 
he  continued  to  come,  it  happened  now  and  then 
that  the  mistress  of  the  house  would  be  engaged, 
and  unable  to  see  him.  Perhaps  she  was  reading 
to  the  Major  from  his  Saturday  Review  ;  and  this 
was  something  which  no  one  else  could  do  in  the 
way  he  liked.  She  alone  knew  how  to  select  the 
items  he  cared  to  hear,  and,  what  was  more  impor 
tant,  how  to  leave  the  rest  unread;  she  alone  knew 
how  to  give  in  a  line  an  abstract  that  was  clear  to 
him,  and  how  to  enliven  the  whole  with  gay  little 
remarks  of  her  own,  which,  she  said,  he  must  allow 
her — a  diversion  for  her  smaller  feminine  mind.  The 
Major  greatly  valued  his  Saturday  Review;  he  would 
have  been  much  disturbed  if  deprived  of  the  ac 
quaintance  it  gave  him  with  the  events  of  the  day. 
Not  that  he  enjoyed  listening  to  it;  but  when  it 
was  done  and  over  for  that  week,  he  had  the  sensa 
tion  of  satisfaction  in  duty  accomplished  which  a 
man  feels  who  has  faced  an  east  wind  for  several 
hours  without  loss  of  optimism,  and  returned  home 
with  a  double  appreciation  of  his  own  pleasant  library 
and  bright  fire.  One's  life  should  not  be  too  per- 


86  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

sonal,  too  easy ;  there  should  be  a  calm  consideration 
of  public  events,  a  general  knowledge  of  the  outside 
world — though  that  outside  world,  tending  as  it  did 
at  present  too  much  towards  mere  utilitarian  inter 
ests,  was  not  especially  interesting;  thus  spoke  the 
Major  at  the  receptions  (with  that  week's  Satur 
day  fresh  in  his  memory),  as  he  alluded  briefly  to 
the  European  news.  For  they  never  discussed  Amer 
ican  news  at  the  receptions ;  they  never  came  farther 
westward,  conversationally,  than  longitude  twenty- 
five,  reckoned,  of  course,  from  Greenwich.  In  1868 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  this  polite  oblivion  south 
of  the  Potomac  and  Cumberland. 

When,  therefore,  Mr.  Owen  happened  to  call  at  a 
time  when  Madam  Carroll  was  engaged,  Miss  Car 
roll  was  obliged  to  receive  him.  She  did  not  dis 
like  him  (which  was  fortunate ;  she  disliked  so  many 
people!),  but  she  did  riot  care  to  see  him  so  often, 
she  said.  He  talked  well,  she  was  aware  of  that ;  he 
had  gone  over  the  entire  field  of  general  subjects 
with  the  hope,  as  it  seemed,  of  finding  one  in  which 
she  might  be  interested.  But  as  she  was  interested 
in  nothing  but  her  father,  and  would  not  talk  of 
him  now,  save  conventionally,  with  any  one,  he 
found  her  rather  unresponsive. 

His  congregation  thought  her,  in  addition,  cold. 
Not  a  few  of  them  had  mentioned  to  him  this  opin- 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  87 

ion.  But  there  was  something  in  Sara  Carroll's  face 
which  seemed  to  Owen  the  reverse  of  cold,  though 
he  could  not  deny  that  to  him  personally  she  was,  if 
not  precisely  wintry,  at  least  as  neutral  as  a  late 
October  day,  when  there  is  neither  sun  to  warm  nor 
wind  to  vivify  the  gray,  still  air.  Yet  he  continued 
to  come  to  the  Farms.  His  liking  for  the  little 
mistress  of  the  house  was  strong  and  sincere.  He 
thought  her  very  sweet  and  winning.  He  found 
there,  too,  an  atmosphere  in  which  he  did  not  have 
to  mount  guard  over  himself  and  his  possessions — an 
atmosphere  of  pleasant  welcome  and  pleasant  words, 
but  both  of  them  unaccompanied  by  what  might 
have  been  called,  perhaps,  the  acquisitiveness  which 
prevailed  elsewhere.  No  one  at  the  Farms  wanted 
him  or  anything  that  was  his,  that  is,  wanted  it  with 
any  tenacity ;  his  time,  his  thoughts,  his  opinions,  his 
approval  or  disapproval,  his  ideas,  his  advice,  his  per 
sonal  sympathy,  his  especial  daily  guidance,  his  morn 
ings,  his  evenings,  his  afternoons,  his  favorite  books, 
his  sermons  in  manuscript — all  these  were  considered 
his  own  property,  and  were  not  asked  for  in  the 
large,  low-ceilinged  drawing-room  where  the  Major's 
wife  and  daughter,  one  or  both,  received  him  when 
he  came.  They  received  him  as  an  equal  (Miss  Car 
roll  as  a  not  especially  important  one),  and  not  as  a 
superior,  a  being  from  another  world ;  though  Madam 


88  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

Carroll  always  put  enough  respect  for  his  rector's 
position  into  her  manner  to  make  him  feel  easy  about 
himself  and  about  coming  again. 

He  continued  to  come  again.  And  Miss  Carroll 
continued  her  neutral  manner.  The  only  change, 
the  only  expression  of  feeling  which  he  had  seen  in 
her  in  all  these  weeks,  was  one  look  in  her  eyes  and 
a  sentence  or  two  she  had  uttered,  brought  out  by 
something  he  said  about  her  mother.  During  one 
of  their  first  interviews  he  had  spoken  of  this  lady, 
expressing,  respectfully,  his  great  liking  for  her,  his 
admiration.  Madame  Carroll's  daughter  had  re 
sponded  briefly,  and  rather  as  though  she  thought  it 
unnecessary  for  him  to  have  an  opinion,  and  more 
than  unnecessary  to  express  one.  He  had  remem 
bered  this  little  passage  of  arms,  and  had  said  no 
more.  But  having  met  the  mistress  of  the  house  a 
few  days  before,  at  a  cabin  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  where  a  poor  crippled  boy  had  just  breathed 
his  last  breath  of  pain,  he  had  been  much  touched  by 
the  sweet,  comprehending,  sisterly  tenderness  of  the 
mother  who  was  a  lady  to  the  mother  who  was  so 
ignorant,  rough-spoken,  almost  rough-hearted  as  well. 
But,  though  rough-hearted,  she  had  loved  her  poor 
child  as  dearly  as  that  other  mother  loved  her  little 
Scar.  The  other  mother  had  herself  said  this  to  him 
as  they  left  the  cabin  together.  He  spoke  of  it  to 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  89 

Sara  when  he  made  his  next  visit  at  the  Farms ;  he 
could  not  help  it. 

And  then  a  humility  he  had  never  seen  there  be 
fore  came  into  her  eyes,  and  a  warmth  of  tone  he  had 
not  heard  before  into  her  voice. 

"My  mother's  goodness  is  simply  unparalleled," 
she  answered.  "You  admire  her  sincerely;  many 
do.  But  no  one  save  those  who  are  in  the  house 
with  her  all  the  time  can  comprehend  the  one  hun 
dredth  part  of  her  unselfishness,  her  energy — which 
is  always  so  quiet — her  tenderness  for  others,  her 
constant  thought  for  them." 

Frederick  Owen  was  surprised  at  the  pleasure 
these  words  gave  him.  For  they  gave  him  a  great 
pleasure.  He  felt  himself  in  a  glow  as  she  finished. 
He  thought  of  this  as  he  walked  home.  He  knew 
that  he  admired  Madame  Carroll;  and  he  was  not 
without  a  very  pleasant  belief,  too,  that  she  had  a 
respect  for  his  opinion,  and  even  an  especial  respect. 
Still,  did  he  care  so  much  to  hear  her  praised  ? — care 
so  much  that  it  put  him  in  a  glow? 

Towards  the  last  of  August  occurred,  on  its  regu 
lar  day,  one  of  Madame  Carroll's  receptions.  To 
Sara  Carroll  it  was  an  unusually  disagreeable  one. 
She  had  never  been  fond  of  the  receptions  at  any 
time,  though  of  late  she  had  accepted  them  because 
they  were  so  much  to  her  father ;  but  this  particular 
one  was  odious. 


90  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

It  was  odious  on  account  of  the  presence  of  a 
stranger  who  had  appeared  in  Far  Edgerley  three 
weeks  before,  a  stranger  who  had  made  his  way  into 
society  there  with  so  much  rapidity  and  success  that 
he  had  now  penetrated  even  the  exclusive  barriers 
of  the  Farms.  But  this  phraseology  was  Miss  Car 
roll's.  In  reality,  the  stranger's  "  way"  had  not  been 
made  by  any  effort  of  his  own,  but  rather  by  his 
manners  and  appearance,  which  were  original,  and 
more  especially  by  a  gift  for  which  nature  was  re 
sponsible,  not  himself.  And  as  to  "penetrating  the 
barriers"  of  the  Farms,  he  had  not  shown  any  especial 
interest  in  that  old-fashioned  mansion,  and  now  that 
he  was  actually  there,  and  at  one  of  the  receptions, 
too,  he  seemed  not  impressed  by  his  good  fortune, 
but  wandered  about  rather  restlessly,  and  yawned  a 
good  deal  in  corners.  These  little  ways  of  his,  how 
ever,  were  considered  to  belong  to  the  "  fantasies  of 
genius ;"  Madam  Carroll  herself  had  so  characterized 
them. 

The  stranger  had,  indeed,  unlimited  genius,  if  signs 
of  this  kind  were  to  be  taken  as  evidences  of  it ;  he 
interrupted  people  in  the  middle  of  their  sentences ; 
he  left  them  abruptly  while  they  were  still  talking 
to  him  ;  he  yawned  (as  has  already  been  mentioned), 
and  not  always  in  corners ;  he  went  to  see  the  per 
sons  he  fancied,  whether  they  had  asked  him  to  do 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  91 

so  or  not ;  he  never  dreamed  of  going  to  see  the  per 
sons  he  did  not  fancy,  no  matter  how  many  times 
they  had  invited  him.  He  had  a  liking  for  flower- 
gardens,  and  had  been  discovered  more  than  once, 
soon  after  his  arrival,  sitting  in  honeysuckle  arbors 
which  the  owners  had  supposed  were  for  their  own 
private  enjoyment.  When  found,  he  had  not  apolo 
gized  ;  he  had  complimented  the  owners  upon  their 
honeysuckles. 

Strangers  were  so  rare  in  Far  Edgerley — high, 
ancient  little  village  in  the  mountains,  far  from  rail 
ways,  unmentioned  in- guide-books — that  this  admirer 
of  flower  -  gardens  was  known  by  sight  through  all 
the  town  before  he  had  been  two  days  in  the  place. 
He  was  named  Dupont,  and  he  was  staying  at  the 
village  inn,  the  Washington  Hotel — an  old  red  brick 
structure,  whose  sign,  a  weather-beaten  portrait  of 
the  Father  of  his  Country,  crowned  the  top  of  a 
thick  blue  pole  set  out  in  the  middle  of  Edgerley 
Street.  He  was  apparently  about  twenty-eight  or 
thirty  years  of  age,  tall,  slender,  carelessly  dressed, 
yet  possessing,  too,  some  picturesque  articles  of  attire 
to  which  Far  Edgerley  was  not  accustomed;  no 
tably,  low  shoes  with  red  silk  stockings  above  them, 
and  a  red  silk  handkerchief  to  match  the  stockings 
peeping  from  the  breast  pocket  of  the  coat ;  a 
cream-colored  umbrella  lined  with  red  silk ;  a  quan- 


92  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

tity  of  cream-colored  gauze  wound  round  a  straw 
hat. 

But  it  was  not  these  articles,  remarkable  as  they 
were,  nor  his  taste  for  opening  gates  without  permis 
sion,  nor  his  habit  of  walking  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  ignoring  sidewalks,  nor  another  habit  he  had 
of  rising  and  going  out  of  church  just  before  the  ser 
mon — it  was  none  of  these  which  had  given  him  his 
privilege  of  entering  "  the  best  society."  The  best 
society  had  opened  its  doors  to  Genius,  and  to  Genius 
alone.  This  genius  was  of  the  musical  kind.  Du- 
pont  played  and  sang  his  own  compositions.  "  What," 
said  Madam  Carroll,  "  is  genius,  if  not  this  ?" 

Madam  Carroll's  opinion  was  followed  in  Far 
Edgerley,  and  Dupont  now  had  the  benefit  of  it. 
The  Rendleshams  invited  him  to  tea;  the  Greers 
sang  for  him  ;  he  was  offered  the  Saturday  Review  / 
even  Mrs.  General  Hibbard,  joining  the  gentle  tide, 
invited  him  to  Chapultepec,  and  when  he  came, 
showed  him  the  duck  yard.  Miss  Honoria  Ashley 
did  not  yield  to  the  current.  But  then  Miss  Honoria 
never  yielded  to  anything.  Her  father,  the  junior 
warden,  freely  announced  (outside  his  own  gate)  that 
the  "singing  man"  amused  him.  Mr.  Phipps  hated 
him,  but  that  was  because  Dupont  had  shown  some 
interest  in  Miss  Lucy  Rendlesham,  who  was  pretty. 
Not  that  they  cared  much,  however,  for  beauty  in 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  93 

Far  Edgerley  ;  it  was  so  much  better  to  be  intel 
lectual.  Ferdinand  Kenneway,  when  he  learned 
that  the  new-comer  had  been  received  both  at  Cha- 
pultepec  and  the  Farms,  called  at  the  inn,  and  left 
one  of  his  engraved  cards  —  "Mr.  F.  Kenneway, 
Baltimore."  He  had  once  lived  in  Baltimore  six 
months.  Dupont  made  an  excellent  caricature  of 
Ferdinand  on  the  back  of  the  card,  and  never  re 
turned  the  call.  On  the  whole,  the  musician  had 
reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon  so  complete  a 
conquest  of  Far  Edgerley's  highest  circle.  Only 
two  persons  (besides  Phipps)  in  all  that  circle  dis 
liked  him.  True,  these  two  disliked  him  strongly ; 
but  they  remained  only  two,  and  they  were,  in  pub 
lic,  at  least,  silent.  They  were  Miss  Carroll  and  the 
rector  of  St.  John's. 

Perhaps  it  was  but  natural  that  a  clergyman  should 
look  askance  at  a  man  who  always  rose  and  walked 
out  of  church  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  pre 
paring  to  begin  his  sermon.  Miss  Carroll,  however, 
had  no  such  sufficient  reason  to  give  for  her  dislike ; 
when  Dupont  came  to  the  Farms  he  was  as  respect 
fully  polite  to  her  as  he  could  be  in  the  very  small 
opportunity  she  vouchsafed  him.  He  came  often 
to  their  flower-garden.  She  complained  of  his  con 
stant  presence.  "  I  am  never  sure  that  he  is  not 
there.  He  is  either  lying  at  full  length  in  the  shade 


94  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

of  the  rhododendrons,  or  else  sitting  in  the  rose  ar 
bor,  drumming  on  the  table." 

"  Yery  harmless  amusements  they  seem  to  me," 
replied  Madam  Carroll. 

"  Yes.  But  why  should  we  be  compelled  to  pro 
vide  his  amusements  ?  I  think  that  office  we  might 
decliire." 

"  You  are  rather  unkind,  aren't  you  ?  What  harm 
has  the  poor  fellow  done  to  us  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  pity  him,  mamma — " 

"  Why  should  not  one  pity  him  a  little  ? — a  young 
man  who  is  so  alone  in  the  world,  as  he  tells  us  he 
is,  not  strong  in  health,  and  often  moody.  Then, 
too,  there  is  his  genius." 

"  I  am  tired  of  his  genius.  I  do  not  believe  in 
his  genius.  There  is  no  power  in  it.  Always  a 
4  little  song!'  A  <  little  song!'  His  little  songs 
are  too  sweet ;  they  have  no  force." 

"  Do  you  wish  him  to  shout  ?" 

"  I  wish  him  to  take  himself  elsewhere.  I  am 
speaking  freely,  mamma ;  for  I  have  noticed  that 
you  seem  to  like  him." 

"He  is  a  variety  —  that  is  the  explanation;  we 
have  so  little  variety  here.  But  I  do  like  him,  Sara, 
or,  rather,  I  like  his  songs.  To  me  they  are  very 
beautiful." 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  either  side.     Sara  had 


"HE   CAME   OFTEN   TO  THEIR   FLOWER   GARDEN." 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  95 

announced  her  dislike,  and  it  had  been  ignored ;  her 
regard  for  Madam  Carroll  kept  her  from  again  ex 
pressing  the  feeling. 

The  present  reception  was  considered  an  especially 
delightful  one.  One  reason  for  this  was  that  Madam 
Carroll  had  altered  her  hours ;  instead  of  from  five 
to  eight,  they  were  now  from  eight  to  ten.  True, 
the  time  was  shorter ;  but  this  was  compensated  for 
by  the  change  from  afternoon  to  evening.  For 
choice  as  had  been  the  tone  of  elegant  culture  which 
had  underlain  these  social  meetings  heretofore,  there 
was  no  doubt  but  that  they  gained  in  the  element 
of  gayety  by  being  deferred  to  candle-light.  The 
candles  inspired  everybody  ;  it  was  felt  to  be  more 
festal.  The  ladies  wore  flowers  in  their  hair,  and 
Ferdinand  Kenneway  came  out  in  white  gloves. 
The  Major,  too,  had  not  appeared  so  well  all  sum 
mer  as  he  did  this  evening ;  every  one  remarked  it. 
Not  that  the  Major  did  not  always  appear  well. 
"  He  is,  and  always  has  been,  the  first  gentleman  of 
our  state.  But  to-night,  how  peculiarly  distinguished 
he  looks !  His  gray  hair  but  adds  to  his  noble  ap 
pearance —  don't  you  think  so?  —  his  gray  hair  and 
his  wounded  arm?  And  dear  Madam  Carroll,  too, 
when  have  you  seen  her  look  so  bright  ?" 

Thus  the  ladies.     But  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
meanwhile,  had  never  been  more  silent.     To-night 


96  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

she  merited,  without  doubt,  their  adjective  "  cold." 
She  had  not  been  able  to  be  of  much  use  to  her 
father  this  evening.  During  the  three  quarters  of 
an  hour  he  had  given  to  his  guests  Madam  Carroll 
had  not  left  him  ;  together  they  had  gone  through 
the  rooms,  exchanging  greetings,  holding  short  con 
versations,  inquiring  after  the  health  of  the  absent. 
As  had  been  remarked,  the  little  wife  looked  very 
bright.  She  had  more  color  than  usual ;  her  com 
plexion  had  never  had,  they  said,  a  more  exquisite 
bloom.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  with  a  large  bunch 
of  pink  roses  fastened  in  her  belt,  and  as  she  stood 
by  the  side  of  her  tall,  gray -haired  husband  she 
looked,  the  junior  warden  declared,  like  "  a  Hebe." 
And  then  he  carefully  explained  that  he  meant  an 
American  Hebe  of  delicate  outlines,  and  not  the 
Hebe  of  the  ancient  Greeks — "  who  always  weighed 
two  hundred." 

The  American  Hebe  talked  with  much  animation  ; 
Far  Edgerley  admired  her  more  than  ever.  After 
the  Major  had  retired  she  was  even  gay ;  the  junior 
warden  having  lost  the  spray  of  sweet-pea  from  his 
button-hole,  with  charming  sportiveness  she  called 
him  to  her  and  replaced  it  with  one  of  her  pink 
roses. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Dupont  was  conducting  himself 
after  his  usual  fantasied  fashion.  He  strolled  about 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  97 

and  leaned  against  the  walls — a  thing  never  done  in 
Far  Edgerley,  on  account  of  the  paper ;  he  stared  at 
the  head-dress  of  Mrs.  General  Hibbard,  an  impres 
sive  edifice  of  black  lace  and  bugles ;  he  talked  a  lit 
tle  to  Miss  Lucy  Rendlesham,  to  the  rage  of  Phipps ; 
he  turned  his  back  on  F.  Kenneway  ;  and  he  laughed 
at  the  poetical  quotations  of  Mrs.  Greer.  And  then 
he  made  no  less  than  six  profound  bows  before  Miss 
Corinna,  the  dignified  leader  of  St.  John's  choir. 

He  bowed  whenever  he  met  her,  stopping  es 
pecially  for  the  purpose,  drawing  his  feet  together, 
and  bending  his  head  and  body  to  an  angle  hereto 
fore  unwitnessed  in  that  community.  Miss  Corinna, 
in  chaste  black  silk,  became  at  last,  martial  though 
she  was,  disconcerted  by  this  extreme  respect.  She 
could  not  return  it  properly,  because,  most  unfort 
unately,  as  she  had  always  thought,  the  days  of  the 
courtesy,  the  only  stately  salutation  for  a  lady,  were 
gone  by.  She  bowed  as  majestically  as  she  could. 
But  when  it  came  to  the  seventh  time,  she  said  to 
her  second  sister,  "  Really,  Camilla,  his  attentions 
are  becoming  too  pressing.  Let  us  retire."  So  they 
retired — to  the  wall.  But  even  here  they  were  not 
secure,  Dupont  discovering  their  retreat,  and  coining 
by  expressly  every  now  and  then  to  bestow  upon 
the  stately  maiden  another  salute. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  evening — or  rather,  of  the 


98  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

reception — he  sang,  accompanying  himself  upon  the 
guitar.  His  guitar  had  a  long  loop  of  red  ribbon 
attached  to  it ;  Miss  Carroll  surveyed  it  and  its 
owner  with  coldest  eye,  as,  seated  upon  a  low  otto 
man  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  he  began  what  she 
had  called  his  "  little  songs."  His  songs  were,  in 
truth,  always  brief ;  but  they  were  not  entirely 
valueless,  in  spite  of  her  prejudice  against  them. 
They  had  a  character  of  their  own.  Sometimes  they 
contained  minor  strains  too  old  for  Far  Edgerley  to 
remember,  the  wild,  soft,  plaintive  cadences  of  the 
Indian  women  of  tribes  long  gone  towards  the  set 
ting  sun,  of  the  first  African  slaves  poling  their  flat- 
boats  along  the  Southern  rivers.  And  sometimes 
they  were  love-songs,  of  a  style  far  too  modern  for 
the  little,  old-fashioned  town  to  comprehend.  Du- 
pont's  voice  was  a  tenor,  not  powerful,  but  delicious- 
ly,  sensuously  sweet.  As  he  sat  there  singing,  with 
his  large,  bold  dark  eyes  roving  about  the  room,  with 
his  slender  dark  fingers  touching  the  strings,  with 
his  black  moustache,  waxed  at  the  ends,  the  gleam  of 
his  red  handkerchief,  and  the  red  flower  in  his  coat, 
he  seemed  to  some  of  the  ladies  present  romantically 
handsome.  To  Sara  Carroll  he  seemed  a  living  im 
pertinence. 

What  right  had  this  person  of  unknown  antece 
dents,  position,  and  character  to  be  posturing  there 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  99 

before  them  ? — to  be  admitted  at  all  to  the  house  of 
her  father?  And  then  her  eyes  happened  to  fall 
upon  her  father's  wife,  who,  in  the  chair  nearest  the 
musician,  was  listening  to  him  with  noticeable  en 
joyment.  She  turned  and  left  the  room. 

By  doing  this  she  came  directly  upon  Frederick 
Owen,  who  had  apparently  performed  the  same  ac 
tion  a  little  while  before.  They  were  alone  in  the 
wide  hall ;  every  one  else  was  in  the  drawing-room, 
gathered  round  the  singer. 

"  It — it  was  cooler  here,"  Owen  explained,  rather 
awkwardly.  At  this  instant  Dnpont's  voice  floated 
out  to  them  in  one  of  his  long,  soft  notes.  "  It  has 
'  a  dying  fall,'  has  it  not  ?"  said  the  clergyman ;  he 
was  trying  to  speak  politely  of  her  guest.  But  as 
his  eyes  met  those  of  Miss  Carroll,  he  suddenly  read 
in  them  a  feeling  of  the  same  strength  and  nature 
as  his  own,  regarding  that  guest.  This  was  a  sur 
prise,  and  a  satisfaction.  It  was  the  first  correspond 
ing  dislike  he  had  been  able  to  discover.  For  his 
own  dislike  had  been  so  strong  that  he  had  been 
searching  in  all  directions  for  a  corresponding  one, 
with  the  hope,  perhaps,  of  proving  to  himself  that 
his  was  not  mere  baseless  prejudice.  But  until  this 
evening  he  had  not  succeeded  in  finding  what  he 
sought.  It  was  all  the  other  way. 

It  should  be  mentioned  here  that  Owen  had  not 


LOO  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

betrayed  this  dislike  of  his.  If  he  had  done  so,  if 
his  objection  to  the  musician  had  been  known,  or 
even  suspected,  it  is  probable  that  Dupont  would 
hardly  have  attained  his  present  position  in  Far 
Edgerley.  For  after  Madam  Carroll's  opinion,  the 
opinion  of  the  rector  of  St.  John's  came  next.  But 
he  had  not  betrayed  it.  There  was  nothing  of  essen 
tial  importance  against  Dupont.  The  fact  that  he 
was  precisely  the  kind  of  fellow  whom  Frederick 
Owen  particularly  disliked  was  simply  a  matter  be 
tween  the  two  men  themselves,  or  rather,  as  Dupont 
cared  nothing  about  it,  between  Owen  and  his  own 
conscience ;  for  he  could  hardly  go  about  denounc 
ing  a  man  because  he  happened  to  play  the  guitar. 
But  after  three  weeks  of  enduring  him — for  he  met 
him  wherever  he  went  —  it  was  great  comfort  to 
have  caught  that  gleam  of  contempt  in  Miss  Car 
roll's  fair  gray  eyes ;  he  was  glad  that  he  had  been 
at  just  the  right  spot  in  the  hall  to  receive  it  as  she 
came  from  the  drawing-room  with  that  alluring 
voice  floating  forth  behind  her. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  evening,"  he  said,  dropping 
the  subject  of  the  musician  ;  "  the  moonlight  is  so 
bright  that  one  can  see  all  the  mountains.  Shall 
we  go  out  and  look  at  them  ?" 

And  Miss  Carroll  was  so  displeased  with  the  scene 
within  that  she  consented  to  withdraw  to  the  scene 


FOR  THE   MAJO;{. 

without ;  and  there  they  remained  as  long  as  the 
singing  lasted.  They  walked  up  and  down  the  broad 
piazza ;  he  talked  about  the  mountain  scenery,  and 
the  waterfalls.  She  did  not  appear  to  be  much  in 
terested  in  them.  Her  companion,  however,  was  not 
so  much  chilled  by  this  manner  of  hers  as  he  had 
sometimes  been  ;  he  had  had  a  glimpse  behind  it. 


102  JOR  THE  MAJOR. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

EAKLY  in  the  week  following  the  reception,  Fred 
erick  Owen  learned  that  Dupont  was  about  to  take 
his  departure  from  Far  Edgerlej,  and  with  no  expec 
tation  of  returning.  This  was  good  news.  He  was 
beginning  to  have  the  feeling  that  the  fellow  would 
never  go  away,  that  he  and  his  guitar  would  become 
a  permanent  feature  of  Madam  Carroll's  receptions, 
his  lounging  figure  under  the  cream-colored  umbrella 
a  daily  ornament  of  the  centre  of  Edgerley  Street. 
"Was  he  really,  then,  going  ?  It  seemed  too  good  to 
be  true.  But  the  tidings  had  been  brought  by  Miss 
Dalley,  who  was  both  good  and  true,  and  who  was 
accurate  as  well ;  she  had  the  very  hour — "  On  Fri 
day,  at  nine." 

"  Hangman's  day  !"  thought  Owen,  with  satisfac 
tion,  doing  his  thinking  this  time  with  the  remnants 
of  boyhood  feelings;  for  though  he  was  in  his  third 
decade — the  beginning  of  it — and  a  clergyman,  the 
boy  in  him  was  by  no  means  entirely  outgrown. 
Miss  Dalley  had  come  to  return  a  book,  Longfellow's 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  103 

"  Outre  Her,"  and  to  borrow  anything  he  might 
have  about  Ferrara. 

"I  was  so  much  interested  in  our  American  poet's 
description  of  the  Italian  poet's  grave,  on  the  Janic- 
ulum,"  she  said.  "It  was  such  a  touching  passage, 
and  it  contained  this  truly  poetical  sentence:  'He 
sleeps  midway  between  his  cradle  at  Sorrento  and 
his  dungeon  at  Ferrara.'  I  can  never  go  in  person, 
Mr.  Owen ;  Fate  has  denied  me  that.  But  I  can 
think  of  the  inscription,  which  Longfellow  gives: 
4  Torquati  Tasso  ossa hie  jacet,'  and  be  there  in  mind" 

She  had  called  it  "  hie  jacket."  "  Jacent,  I  think," 
said  the  rector,  gently. 

"Yes,  certainly;  that  is  what  I  meant — jacinth," 
said  Miss  Dalley,  correcting  herself.  "A  beautiful 
word,  is  it  not  ?  And  so  appropriate,  too,  for  a  poet's 
grave,  mentioned,  as  it  is,  in  Revelations  !" 

On  Friday  Dupont  really  did  go.  The  rector 
himself  saw  him  pass  in  the  high  red  wagon  of  the 
Washington  Inn  on  his  way  down  the  mountain  to 
the  lower  town,  the  eastward-bound  stage,  and  thence 
— wherever  he  pleased,  the  gazer  thought,  so  long  as 
he  did  not  return.  But  although  the  rector  gave 
this  vagueness  to  the  musician's  destination,  it  was 
understood  in  other  quarters  that  he  was  going  back 
to  the  West  India  Islands — "  where  he  used  to  live, 

you  know." 

8 


104.  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

"  Upon  which  one  did  he  live  ?"  asked  the  junior 
warden.  "  There  are  about  fifty  thousand  of  them, 
large  and  small ;  he  can't  have  lived  on  them  all." 

"  For  my  part,  I  think  him  quite  capable  of  it," 
answered  Miss  Honoria,  grimly. 

Having  seen  the  musician  depart,  Owen  jumped 
on  his  horse  and  went  off  to  one  of  his  mission  sta 
tions  far  up  among  the  crags  of  Lonely  Mountain. 
For,  not  content  with  a  rector's  usual  duties,  all  of 
which  he  attended  to  with  a  modern  promptness  un 
known  in  the  days  of  good  old  Parson  Montgomery, 
he  had  established  mission  stations  at  various  points 
in  the  mountains  above  Far  Edgerley.  Wherever 
there  wrere  a  few  log-houses  gathered  together,  there 
he  held  services,  or  started  a  Sunday-school.  He 
was  by  far  the  most  energetic  rector  the  parish  of 
St.  John  in  the  Wilderness  had  ever  had ;  so  much 
so,  indeed,  that  the  parish  hardly  knew  how  to  take 
his  energy,  and  thought  that  he  was  perhaps  rather 
too  much  in  the  wilderness  —  more  than  necessity 
demanded  or  his  bishop  required.  Miss  Honoria 
Ashley  had  even  called  these  journeyings  of  his 
"  itinerant ;"  but  Miss  Honoria  was  known  to  disap 
prove,  on  general  principles,  of  everything  the  rector 
did  :  she  had  once  seen  him  wearing  a  sack-coat. 

On  this  particular  Friday  he  was  out  all  day  among 
the  peaks,  close  up  under  the  sky.  Coming  down  at 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  105 

sunset,  and  entering  Edgerley  Street,  with  its  knolls 
and  flower-gardens  and  rambling  old  houses,  his 
home  seemed  to  him  a  peaceful  and  pleasant  one. 
And  then,  as  he  passed  Carroll  Farms,  he  became 
conscious  that  the  cause  for  its  seeming  especially 
peaceful  to  him  this  evening  was  the  absence  of  the 
intruder,  that  man  from  another  world,  who  was  no 
longer  there  to  contaminate  its  sweet,  old-fashioned 
simplicity  with  his  dubious  beauty,  his  dangerous 
character,  and  his  enchanting  voice.  For  Owen  be 
lieved  that  the  musician's  character  was  dangerous; 
his  face  bore  the  marks  of  dissipation,  and  though 
indolent,  and  often  full  of  gay  good-nature,  he  had 
at  times  a  reckless  expression  in  his  eyes.  Nothing 
deterred  him  from  amusing  himself;  and  probably, 
in  the  same  way,  nothing  would  deter  him  from  any 
course  towards  which  he  should  happen  to  feel  an 
inclination.  He  was  not  dangerous  by  plan  or  cal 
culation;  he  was  dangerous  from  the  very  lack  of 
them.  He  was  essentially  erratic,  and  followed  his 
fancies,  and  no  one  could  tell  whither  they  would 
lead  him.  But  he  might  have  been  all  this,  and  the 
clergyman  would  still  have  felt  able  to  guard  his 
parish  and  people  from  any  harm  his  presence  might 
do  them,  had  it  not  been  for  the  favor  shown  him 
by  Madarn  Carroll.  This  had  been  a  blow  to  Owen. 
He  said  to  himself  that  the  gentle  lady's  love  of 


106  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

music  had  blinded  her  judgment,  and  carried  her 
astray.  It  was  a  satisfaction  that  Miss  Carroll's 
judgment  remained  unblinded.  But  it  was  greatest 
satisfaction  of  all  that  the  man  was  gone;  he  con 
gratulated  himself  upon  this  anew  as  he  rode  by  the 
gateway  of  the  Farms. 

It  was  well  that  he  had  this  taste  of  comfort.  It 
did  not  last  long.  Less  than  three  weeks  had  passed 
when  he  learned  one  afternoon  that  Dupont  had 
returned.  And  not  long  afterwards  he  was  in  pos 
session  of  other  knowledge,  which  troubled  him 
more  than  anything  that  had  happened  since  he 
came  to  Far  Edgerley. 

In  the  meantime  his  parish,  unaware  of  its  rec 
tor's  opinion,  had  welcomed  back  the  summer  visitor 
with  various  graceful  little  attentions.  The  summer 
visitor  had  been  seriously  ill,  and  needed  attentions, 
graceful  or  otherwise.  He  had  journeyed  as  far  as 
New  York,  and  there  had  fallen  ill  of  a  fever,  which 
was  not  surprising,  the  parish  thought,  when  one 
considered  the  dangerously  torrid  climate  of  that 
business  metropolis  at  this  season.  Upon  recovery, 
he  had  longed  with  a  great  longing  for  "our  pure 
Chillawassee  air,"  and  had  returned  to  pass  the  time 
of  convalescence  "among  our  noble  peaks;"  this 
was  repeated  from  knoll  to  knoll.  Dnpont's  appear 
ance  bore  testimony  to 'the  truth  of  the  tale.  He 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  107 

had  evidently  been  ill:  his  cheeks  were  hollow,  and 
he  moved  about  slowly,  as  though  he  had  not  much 
strength ;  his  eyes,  large  and  dark,  looked  larger  and 
darker  than  ever,  set  in  his  thin,  brown  face.  But 
he  was  still  Dupont;  his  moustache  was  still  waxed, 
and  he  had  some  new  articles  of  finery,  a  gold  watch- 
chain,  and  a  seal-ring  on  his  long -fingered  hand. 
This  time  he  did  not  stay  at  the  inn ;  he  preferred 
to  try  a  f arm-house,  and  selected  Walley's  Cove,  a 
small  farm  a  little  above  the  village,  in  one  of  the 
high  ravines  which,  when  wide  enough  for  a  few 
fields  along  the  mountain-brook  that  flowed  through 
the  centre,  were  called  coves.  Dupont  liked  the 
place  on  account  of  the  view ;  and  also,  he  said,  be 
cause  he  could  throw  a  stone  from  the  cove's  mouth 
"  into  every  chimney  in  Far  Edgerley."  This  was 
repeated.  "  Do  you  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  General 
Hibbard,  solemnly — "  do  you  suppose  he  is  going  to 
doit?" 

This  lady  had  felt  from  the  beginning  a  solemn 
curiosity  about  Dupont,  about  all  he  said  and  did. 
But  this  was  quite  natural,  the  village  thought,  when 
one  considered  the  interesting  proximity  of  the  West 
India  Islands  (where  the  musician  used  to  live)  to 
the  glorious  Mexican  field  of  her  departed  husband's 
fame.  But,  in  return  for  her  interest,  Dupont  had 
irreverently  made  a  caricature  of  the  august  widow, 


108  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

depicting  her  as  a  mermaid,  in  her  own  duck-pond, 
surrounded  by  all  her  ducks,  clad  in  Mexican  cos 
tumes;  and  then  Far  Edgerley  society,  which  had 
been  obliged  to  listen  for  eight  long  years  to  many 
details  about  these  birds  of  Chapultepec — Far  Edger 
ley  society  was  corrupt  enough  to  laugh. 

But  this  incident  belonged  to  Dupont's  first  visit; 
and,  like  other  incidents  of  his  first  visit,  could  be 
deemed  amusing  or  impertinent  according  to  one's 
view  of  him.  The  new  knowledge  which  had  come 
to  Frederick  Owen  was  something  very  different — 
different  and  grave:  Sara  Carroll  had  changed..  She 
now  felt  an  interest  in  this  stranger,  and  she  was 
showing  it. 

Was  this  the  influence  of  Madam  Carroll?  But 
Owen  could  not  long  think  this.  Miss  Carroll  was 
not  a  person  to  be  easily  influenced  or  led.  She  was 
not  yielding;  whatever  course  she  might  follow,  one 
could  at  least  be  sure  that,  good  or  bad,  it  was  her 
own.  Her  interest  showed  itself  guardedly;  so 
much  so  that  no  one  had  observed  it.  The  clergy 
man  felt  sure  that  he  was  the  only  discoverer,  and 
his  own  discovery  he  owed  to  a  rare  chance.  He 
was  coming  down  Chillawassee  on  horseback,  and 
in  bending  to  gather  a  flower  from  a  bush,  as  he 
passed,  he  had  lost  a  small  note-book  from  the  breast 
pocket  of  his  coat;  dismounting  to  look  for  it,  he 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  1Q9 

found  that  it  was  lying  on  a  ledge  not  far  below  the 
road,  and  that  he  could  get  it  by  a  little  climbing. 
He  made  his  way  down  to  the  ledge,  and  secured  the 
book.  Then  he  saw,  a  little  farther  down,  one  of 
the  isolated  rocks  called  chimneys,  and  was  seized 
with  the  fancy  to  have  a  look  from  its  top.  He 
obeyed  this  fancy.  And  from  its  top  he  found  him 
self  looking  directly  down  into  a  small  field  on  the 
edge  of  Carroll  Farms ;  here,  standing  together  under 
a  tree,  were  two  figures  which  he  instantly  recognized 
— they  were  the  figures  of  Sara  Carroll  and  Dupont. 
This  field  was  separated  from  the  road  by  a  hedge 
so  high  that  no  one  could  look  over  it,  and  from  the 
other  fields  and  the  orchard  of  the  Farms  by  a  thicket 
of  chincapins.  The  two  were  therefore  well  hidden  ; 
they  were  safe  from  discovery  save  for  the  remote 
chance  that  some  one  had  climbed  the  chimney  above 
them.  And  this  one  remote  chance  had  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  Frederick  Owen. 

He  was  much  surprised,  uncertain,  unhappy. 
Shielded  by  the  tall  bushes  growing  on  top  of  the 
chimney,  he  had  stood  for  several  minutes  looking 
down  upon  the  two.  Then  he  left  the  rock,  went 
back  to  his  horse,  and  rode  home. 

His  uneasiness,  after  spoiling  his  night's  sleep, 
took  him  to  the  Farms  the  next  afternoon.  Madam 
Carroll  received  him  in  the  drawing-room,  She 


HO  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

offered  an  excuse  for  Miss  Carroll;  it  seemed  that 
she  had  a  headache.  But  on  his  way  out  the  clergy 
man  distinctly  saw  the  shadow  of  a  man  thrown 
across  the  dining-room  floor  by  the  bright  sunshine 
shining  through  the  western  windows.  It  might 
not  be  the  shadow  of  Dupont,  of  course;  he  was 
ashamed  of  himself  for  his  quick  suspicion.  It  might 
be  that  of  some  other  visitor,  or  of  one  of  their  poor 
pensioners,  or  of  Caleb  Inches.  But  no  masculine 
visitor  came  to  the  Farms  at  this  hour  save,  now 
and  then,  the  junior  warden,  whose  small  figure 
never  cast  shadow  like  that;  and  all  the  pensioners 
of  whom  he  had  knowledge  were  women.  He  de 
cided  that,  of  course,  it  was  Inches ;  and  then,  on  his 
way  down  Carroll  Lane,  he  met  Inches  coming  up. 
Still,  it  was  but  a  supposition.  He  forced  himself  to 
cast  it  aside. 

Chance,  however,  seemed  determined  to  disturb 
him,  for  she  soon  threw  in  his  way  other  knowledge, 
and  this  not  a  shadow,  but  reality.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Sara  Carroll  turning  into  a  little  -  used 
path,  which  led  up  the  mountain  to  a  fir-wood.  His 
own  road  (he  was  on  horseback,  as  usual,  on  his  way 
to  a  mission  station)  led  him  by  Walley's  Cove,  and 
here,  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  distinctly  saw  the  fig 
ure  of  Louis  Dupont  entering  the  same  wood  at  its 
upper  edge,  and  by  the  path  which  would  bring  him 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  HI 

directly  to  her,  the  same  path  she  herself  was  fol 
lowing. 

Owen's  trouble  now  took  complete  possession  of 
him ;  up  to  this  time  he  had  fought  it  off.  He  felt 
that  he  ought  to  do  something,  to  act.  Dupont  was 
a  dissipated,  erratic  adventurer,  whose  history  no  one 
knew.  Should  he  let  this  proud,  fastidious,  delicate- 
minded  girl  fall  into  such  a  vulgar  trap  as  this?  Be 
fore  his  eyes,  within  reach  of  his  hand?  Yet  there 
it  was  again — if  she  were  in  reality  as  proud  and 
fastidious  as  he  had  supposed  her  to  be  (and  he  had 
thought  her  the  proudest  girl  he  had  ever  known), 
how  could  she,  of  her  own  accord,  endure  Louis 
Dnpont?  At  one  time  she  had  not  endured  him. 
There  had  been  a  memorable  moment  when  the  ex 
pression  of  her  eyes  (how  well  he  remembered  it !) 
had  been  unmistakable ;  the  moment  when  he  had 
met  her,  coming  from  the  drawing-room,  with  that 
alluring  voice  floating  forth  behind  her.  What  could 
have  changed  her  —  changed  her  so  completely  as 
this? 

The  one  answer  presented  itself  with  pitiless 
promptness :  Dupont  had  changed  her.  He  had 
accomplished  it  himself,  with  the  aid  of  a  handsome 
face,  fine  ej'es,  and  an  audacity  which  stopped  at 
nothing;  for  the  clergyman  had  always  felt  sure 
that  the  audacity  was  there,  although  it  had  not,  in 


112  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

Far  Edgerley,  at  least,  been  much  exerted.  This 
was  so  acutely  disagreeable  to  the  man  who  was 
thinking  of  it,  that  there  was  in  his  own  eyes  (hand 
some  ones,  too,  in  their  way  —  a  blue  way)  angry 
moisture  as  he  went  over  its  possibilities.  He 
clinched  his  hand  and  rode  on ;  it  would  have  fared 
hardly  with  the  musician  had  he  crossed  his  path 
just  then.  Owen  was  a  clergyman.  But  he  had 
been  a  man,  and  a  free  one,  first ;  he  had  not  gone 
from  college  and  seminary  directly  into  the  minis 
try.  He  was  thirty-one  years  old,  and  he  had  taken 
orders  but  two  years  before ;  the  preceding  interval 
had  not  been  spent  in  country  villages. 

With  all  this  surging  feeling,  however,  he  had  as 
yet  nothing  definite  against  this  stranger  —  this 
stranger  whose  bad  manners  had  been  protected  by 
his  "genius,"  and  whose  bad  aspects  had  not  been 
perceived  by  the  innocent  little  town.  By  nothing 
definite  he  meant  nothing  that  he  could  use.  But 
now  Chance,  having  given  him  three  heavy  burdens 
of  knowledge  to  carry  (he  had  carried  them  as  well 
as  he  could,  with  a  heavy  heart  as  well) — the  knowl 
edge  of  those  three  meetings  which,  if  not  clan 
destine,  were  at  least  concealed — this  same  Chance 
relented  so  far  as  to  present  him  with  other  knowl 
edge — knowledge  of  a  different  hue.  She  put  in  his 
possession  some  recent  facts  concerning  the  musi- 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  113 

cian  which  were  proof,  and  proof  positive,  against 
him. 

•  But  what  could  Owen  do  with  his  facts?  If  he 
had  not  known  what  he  knew  of  Sara  Carroll's  in 
terest  in  him,  he  could  have  proceeded  against  the 
fellow  at  once ;  it  needed  but  the  statement  which 
he  was  now  able  to  make  to  close  every  door  in  Far 
Edgerley  against  him,  for  the  little  town,  though  not 
strait-laced,  had  a  standard  of  morals  as  pure  as  its 
own  air.  But  if  he  should  do  this,  might  not  Du- 
pont  take  his  revenge,  or,  less  than  that,  amuse  him 
self,  as  he  would  call  it,  by  letting  the  village  public 
learn  of  his  intimate  relations  with  the  Farms,  or 
rather  with  Miss  Carroll  ?  Madam  Carroll's  liking 
for  him,  or,  rather,  for  his  songs,  was  known  and 
comprehended.  But  Miss  Carroll's  liking  was  not 
known  ;  and  it  had,  too,  an  aspect — and  here  Fred 
erick  Owen  felt  that  he  would  rather  go  on  forever 
in  silence  than  have  that  aspect  discussed.  Yet 
something  he  must  do.  He  decided  to  go  to  Major 
Carroll  himself.  Infirm  as  was  his  health,  and  se 
cluded  as  was  his  life,  he  was  the  natural  protector 
of  these  two  ladies,  and  would  wish  to  know,  ought 
to  know,  everything  that  concerned  them.  He  went 
to  the  Farms. 

The  Major  was  not  feeling  well  that  day;  Madam 
Carroll  hoped  that  the  rector  would  excuse  him. 


FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

The  rector  had  no  alternative  but  to  do  so.  He 
asked  if  he  might  not  see  him  on  the  following  day. 
Madam  Carroll,  with  regret,  feared  that  this  would 
not  be  possible ;  he  had  taken  cold,  and  his  colds  al 
ways  lasted  for  a  long  time ;  he  had  not  yet  recov 
ered  his  strength  fully  after  that  illness  of  the  pre 
ceding  winter — as  the  rector  was  probably  aware. 
Disappointed,  the  rector  went  away.  As  he  passed 
down  green  Edgerley  Street  he  met  Dupont  coming 
up,  as  usual,  in  the  centre  of  the  roadway.  The 
musician  gave  the  clergyman  a  profound  bow,  al 
most  as  profound  as  those  with  which  he  had  dis 
concerted  Miss  Corinna.  As  Owen  returned  it — as 
slightly  as  possible — he  thought  he  saw  in  Dupont's 
eyes  a  mocking  gleam  of  amusement.  Amusement? 
Or  was  it  triumph  ?  He  went  on  his  way,  walking 
rapidly ;  but  at  a  certain  point  in  the  road  he  could 
not  help  looking  back.  Yes,  Dupont  had  turned 
into  Carroll  Lane. 

On  the  next  day  the  rector  of  St.  John's,  having 
taken  a  new  resolution,  started  to  pay  a  morning 
visit  at  the  residence  of  his  senior  warden.  In  an 
swer  to  his  knock  Judith  Inches  opened  the  door. 
Without  waiting  for  words  from  him,  this  guardian 
of  the  Farms  announced  that  the  Major  was  not 
well,  and  that  the  ladies  were  engaged,  and  would 
like  to  be  excused.  She  then  seemed  quite  prepared 
to  close  the  door. 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  115 

"  Perhaps  Madam  Carroll  would  see  me,  if  she 
knew  it  was  I,"  said  Owen. 

Judith  Inches  thought  there  was  no  probability 
of  this. 

The  tall,  blue-eyed  man  on  the  door-step  did  not 
accept  her  probability ;  he  suggested  that  she  at 
least  make  it  sure. 

Judith  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot;  then, 
gradually,  as  much  of  a  smile  as  ever  illumined  her 
countenance  stole  across  its  lean,  high-cheek-boned 
expanse ;  she  beckoned  him  in,  and  pointed  with  a 
long  forefinger  down  the  hall  towards  a  half-open 
door.  "  Miss  Sara's  theer,"  she  said. 

It  was  the  door  of  the  dining-room.  Visitors 
were  not  invited  to  enter  this  room,  save  at  the  re 
ceptions,  and  Owen,  after  advancing  a  step  or  two, 
stopped ;  the  permission  of  Judith  Inches  seemed 
hardly  enough. 

And  then  this  mountain  maid,  in  her  lank  brown 
gown,  drew  near,  and  murmured  in  his  ear  these 
mystic  words :  "  Go  right  along  in.  What  yer 
feared  of  ?  I've  noticed  that  you  was  feared  of  her 
before  now.  That's  no  way.  Brace  up,  man,  brace 
up.  Stiffen  in  an  irun  will,  and  you'll  do  it."  She 
then  softly  and  swiftly  withdrew  down  the  hall, 
turning  to  give  him  a  solemn  wink  at  a  far  door 
before  she  disappeared. 


116  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

Owen  felt  a  great  schoolboy  blush  rising  all  over 
his  face  as  he  stood  there  alone.  Had  the  feminine 
eye  of  this  serious  spinster  discovered  what  he  him 
self  had  not?  But  no;  he  always  knew  all  about 
himself.  She  had  simply  discovered,  woman-fash 
ion,  more  than  existed.  He  went  down  the  hall, 
and  entered  the  dining-room.  There,  at  its  western 
window,  sat  Sara  Carroll,  sewing. 

She  answered  his  greeting,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  I  heard  a  knock,  but  there  was  so  long  a  delay  that 
I  supposed  no  one  had  entered,"  she  said. 

He  took  a  seat,  explaining  that  Judith  Inches  had 
told  him  to  come  to  this  room.  "My  visit  is  more 
especially  to  either  Major  or  Madam  Carroll  this 
morning,"  he  said.  "  But  your  tall  handmaiden 
was  sure  that  they  would  not  be  able  to  receive 
me." 

"  My  father  is  not  well  to-day,  and  mamma  has  a 
headache.  Judith  was  right,"  answered  Miss  Car 
roll.  She  took  up  her  sewing  again,  and  went  on 
with  the  seam. 

Owen,  who  had  brought  himself  up  to  the  point 
of  speaking  to  Madam  Carroll  herself  (for  he  had 
no  hope,  after  yesterday,  of  seeing  the  Major),  was 
disappointed.  It  was  a  difficult  task  he  had  under 
taken,  and  he  wanted  to  do  it,  and  have  it  over. 
Foiled  for  this  day  at  least,  he  still  sat  there,  his 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  117 

eyes  on  Miss  Carroll's  moving  needle.  He  was 
thinking  a  little,  perhaps,  of  Judith  Inches'  remark 
able  imagination ;  but  far  more  of  Miss  Carroll  her 
self.  Her  delicately  cut  face,  with  its  reserved  ex 
pression,  was  there  before  him.  Yet  this  was  the 
same  girl  who  had  received  Dupont  in  this  very 
room,  who  had  talked  with  him  in  that  secluded 
meadow,  who  had  gone  to  the  fir-wood  to  meet  him. 
His  eyes  showed  his  inward  trouble,  they  looked 
bluely  dense  and  clouded.  Miss  Carroll  glanced  at 
him  once  or  twice,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  guardedly ; 
but  he  was  aware  that  he  was  no  longer  a  calm 
judge  where  she  was  concerned ;  aware  that  he 
might  easily  mistake  the  importance  or  significance 
of  any  little  look  or  act.  He  fell  into  almost  com 
plete  silence,  so  that  she  was  obliged  to  find  topics 
herself,  and  keep  up  the  conversation  ;  heretofore, 
when  with  her,  this  had  always  been  his  task. 

He  had  sat  there  twenty  minutes  when  there  was 
a  light  step  in  the  hall,  and  Madam  Carroll  entered. 
She  came  towards  him  with  her  hand  extended  and 
a  smile  of  welcome.  "  Why  did  they  not  tell  me 
you  were  here,  Mr.  Owen  ?  It  was  by  mere  chance 
that  I  happened  to  hear  the  sound  of  your  voice, 
and  came  down." 

Sara  had  risen  as  her  mother  entered,  her  work 
dropping  to  the  floor.  "  Oh,  mamma !"  she  mur- 


118  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

mured.  Then,  "  I  have  told  Mr.  Owen  that  you 
have  a  headache,"  she  explained. 

"A  mere  trifle.  And  it  is  over  now.  Besides, 
headache  or  no  headache,  I  always  wish  to  see 
Mr.  Owen,"  said  the  Major's  wife,  giving  him  her 
hand. 

Owen  tried  to  recall  his  prearranged  sentences,  and 
summoned  all  his  coolness  and  skill.  The  oppor 
tunity  he  had  sought  was  to  be  his  after  all ;  now 
let  him  use  it  to  the  best  advantage.  But  it  was 
not  easy  to  tell  a  lady  in  her  own  house  that  both 
her  taste  and  her  judgment  had  been  at  fault. 

"I  especially  wished  to  see  you  this  morning, 
Madam  Carroll,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am  very  glad  you 
came  down.  I  am  anxious  to  speak  with  you  upon 
a  subject  which  seems  to  me  important." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  answered  the  lady,  giving 
the  ruffle  of  her  overskirt  a  pat  of  adjustment,  and 
then  drawing  forward  a  low  willow  chair. 

"  I  think — I  think,  with  your  permission,  we  will 
go  to  another  room,"  said  the  clergyman. 

Miss  Carroll  was  still  standing;  she  made  no  of 
fer  to  go.  Again  she  looked  at  their  visitor,  and 
this  time  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  more  than 
guardedly,  that  it  was  defiance.  "  Mamma,"  she 
said,  "  with  your  headache — for  I  know  you  have 
it  still — are  you  not  undertaking  too  much?  Mr. 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  119 

Owen  will  excuse  you.  Or  could  I  not  take  your 
place  ?"  And  she  turned  to  Owen. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "you  could  not."  And  he 
said  no  more.  He  was  aware  that  he  was  proceed 
ing  clumsily,  but  he  could  not  help  it.  He  found 
that  he  cared  too  much  about  it  to  do  it  gracefully 
or  with  skill.  He  recalled  her  slender,  black-robed 
figure  going  towards  the  fir -wood,  and  his  eyes 
grew  more  clouded  than  before.  He  turned  away. 
"  Of  course,  if  Madam  Carroll  is  suffering,"  he  said 
— then  he  stopped ;  he  did  not  want  to  postpone  it 
again. 

Madam  Carroll  threw  up  her  hands.  "  My  dear 
Sara,  you  make  so  much  of  my  poor  little  headache 
that  Mr.  Owen  will  think  I  am  subject  to  headaches. 
But  I  am  happy  to  say  that  I  am  not ;  as  a  general 
thing,  they  are  mere  feminine  affectations.  Come 
to  the  drawing-room,  Mr.  Owen.  At  this  hour  we 
shall  not  be  interrupted."  She  led  the  way  thither, 
and  seated  herself  in  her  favorite  chair,  having  first 
rolled  forward  a  larger  one  for  her  guest.  The  spin 
dle-legged  furniture  of  the  old-fashioned  room  had 
been  covered  by  her  own  deft  fingers  with  chintz  of 
cream-color,  enlivened  with  wreaths  of  bright  flow 
ers;  over  the  windows  and  doors  hung  curtains  of 
the  same  material.  In  this  garden -like  expanse 
Owen  took  his  seat,  collected  himself  and  what  he 

9 


120  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

had  to  say  in  one  quick  moment  of  review,  and  then 
began. 

First,  he  asked  her  to  pardon  what  was,  in  one 
way,  the  great  liberty  he  was  taking  in  speaking  at 
all ;  in  excuse  he  could  only  say  that  it  seemed  to 
him  important  —  important  to  her  own  household. 
And  in  no  household  the  world  held  had  he  a  deep 
er,  a  more  sincere,  interest  than  in  her  own. 

Madam  Carroll  begged  to  recall  to  his  remem 
brance  that  that  was  saying  a  great  deal  —  "no 
household  in  the  world." 

He  did  not  answer  this  little  speech,  archly  made. 
He  took  up  his  main  subject.  He  told  her  that  he 
had  been  unwilling  to  speak  to  her  of  it  at  all ;  that 
he  should  have  greatly  preferred  speaking  to  the  Ma 
jor  ;  but  that  had  not  been  possible,  at  least  for  the 
present,  as  she  was  aware.  The  matter  concerned 
itself  with  some  facts  he  had  lately  learned  about 
a  person  who  had  been  generally  received  in  Far  Ed- 
gerley  and  also  at  the  Farms — a  person  of  whose  his 
tory  they  really  knew  nothing,  this — this  musician — 

"  Are  you  pretending  you  do  not  know  his  name  ?" 
asked  Madam  Carroll.  "  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is  if 
you  have  forgotten;  it  will  make  your  story  easier: 
Dupont — Louis  Eugene  Dupont." 

Owen  was  astounded  by  her  manner ;  he  had  never 
seen  anything  like  it  in  her  before.  Her  large  blue  eyes 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  121 

— of  a  blue  lighter  than  his  own — looked  at  him  calm 
ly,  almost,  it  seemed  to  him,  with  a  calm  impertinence. 

"I  had  not  forgotten  his  name,"  he  answered, 
gravely.  "I  have  had  too  much  reason  to  remem 
ber  it.  He  has  given  me  anxiety  for  some  time  past, 
Madam  Carroll.  I  have  felt  that  he  was  not  the  per 
son  to  be  received  among  us  as  he  has  been  received. 
We  are  rather  a  secluded  mountain  village,  you  know, 
and  there  has  been  little  here  to  tempt  him  into  be 
traying  himself ;  but  I  have  suspected  him  from  the 
first,  and  now — " 

"  You  are  rather  inclined  to  suspect  people,  aren't 
you  ?"  said  Madam  Carroll,  with  the  same  calm  gaze. 

"  Major  Carroll  would  have  suspected  him  also 
had  he  ever  met  him." 

"As  it  happens,  my  husband  has  met  him.  It 
was  at  one  of  our  receptions ;  early  in  the  evening, 
I  think,  before  you  came." 

"And  he  said  nothing?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  must  go  on  in  any  case,"  said  Owen  ;  "  I  can 
do  no  otherwise.  For  it  is  not  for  my  own  sake  I 
am  speaking — 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?"  said  his  hostess,  inter 
rupting  him  again  without  ceremony.  This  time 
her  tone  had  an  amusement  in  it,  an  amusement  not 
unmixed  with  sarcasm* 


122  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

"I  should  do  it  just  the  same  though  I  were  on 
the  eve  of  leaving  Far  Edgerley  forever,  never  ex 
pecting  to  see  any  of  you  again,"  he  answered,  with 
some  heat. 

"  It  could  hardly  be  a  final  parting,  even  then  ;  for 
the  world  is  not  so  large  as  you  suppose,  Mr.  Owen. 
It  hardly  seems  necessary,  on  the  whole,  to  be  so 
tragic,"  answered  the  lady,  again  adjusting  the  ruffle 
of  her  overskirt,  and  laughing  a  little. 

Owen  was  bewildered.  He  had  thought  that  he 
knew  her  so  well,  he  had  thought  that  she  was  of 
all  his  parish  his  best  and  kindest  friend ;  yet  there 
she  sat,  within  three  feet  of  him,  looking  at  him 
mockingly,  turning  all  his  earnest  words  into  ridi 
cule,  laughing  at  him. 

He  was  no  match  for  her  in  little  sarcasms,  and 
he  was  in  no  mood  for  that  kind  of  warfare.  He 
said  no  more  about  himself  and  his  feelings;  he 
simply  gave  her  a  plain  outline  of  the  facts  which 
had  recently  come  into  his  possession. 

Madam  Carroll  replied  that  she  did  not  believe 
them.  Such  stories  were  always  in  circulation  about 
handsome  young  men  like  Louis  Dupont.  They 
were  told  by  other  men — who  were  jealous  of  them. 

Owen,  who  had  grown  a  little  pale,  quietly  gave 
her  his  proofs.  The  scene  of  the  affair  was  one  of 
his  own  mission  stations — the  most  distant  one ;  he 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  123 

knew  the  young  girl's  father,  and  even  the  young 
girl  herself. 

"  Oh,  it  seems  you  knew  her  too,  then,"  said  Mad 
am  Carroll,  laughing.  "  I  suppose  she  liked  Dupont 
best." 

The  young  clergyman  was  struck  into  silence. 
This  little,  gentle,  golden-haired  lady,  whom  he  had 
admired  so  long  and  so  sincerely,  was  this  she  ?  Were 
those  her  words  ?  Was  that  her  laugh  ?  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  some  evil  spirit  had  suddenly  taken  up 
his  abode  in  her,  and  having  driven  out  her  own 
sweet  soul,  was  looking  at  him  through  her  pretty 
eyes,  and  speaking  to  him  with  her  pretty,  rose4eaf 
lips.  Stinging,  under  the  circumstances  insulting, 
as  had  been  her  speech,  he  was  not  angry ;  he  was 
too  much  grieved.  He  could  have  taken  her  in  his 
arms  and  wept  over  her.  For  what  could  it  all  mean 
save  that  Dupont  had  in  some  way  obtained  such 
control  of  her,  poor  little  woman,  that  she  was  ready 
to  attack  everybody  and  anybody  who  attacked  him  ? 

He  looked  at  her,  still  in  silence.  Then  he  rose. 
"  I  have  told  you  all  I  know,  Madam  Carroll,"  he 
said,  sadly,  taking  his  hat  from  the  chair  beside  him. 
"  I  had  hoped  that  you  would —  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  could  receive  me  or  speak  to  me  in  the  way 
you  have.  I  have  had  the  greatest  regard  for  you ; 
I  have  thought  you  my  best  friend." 


124  FOB  THE  MAJOR. 

• 

Madam  Carroll  had  also  risen,  with  the  air  of  wish 
ing  to  close  the  interview.  She  dropped  her  eyes 
as  he  said  these  last  words,  and  lifted  her  handker 
chief  to  her  mouth. 

"  I  think  as  much  of  you  as  ever,"  she  murmured. 
And  then  she  began  to  cough,  a  cough  with  a  long 
following  breath  that  was  almost  like  a  sob. 

The  door  opened,  and  Sara  Carroll  entered.  She 
came  straight  to  her  mother,  and  put  her  arm  round 
her  as  if  to  support  her.  "I  knew  you  were  not 
well,  mamma.  Mr.  Owen  will  certainly  excuse  you 
now"  And  she  looked  at  their  guest  with  a  glance 
which  he  felt  to  be  dismissal. 

Madam  Carroll,  exhausted  by  the  cough,  leaned 
against  her  daughter,  her  face  covered  by  her  hand 
kerchief.  Owen  turned  to  go.  But  when  he  saw 
the  daughter  standing  there  so  near  him,  when  he 
thought  of  what  he  knew  of  her  interest  in  this 
man,  and  of  the  mother's  recent  tone  about  him, 
his  heart  failed  him.  He  could  not  go — go  and 
leave  her  without  one  word  of  warning,  one  effort 
to  save  her,  to  show  her  what  he  felt. 

"I  came  to  warn  Madam  Carroll  against  Louis 
Dupont,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "Madam  Carroll  has 
not  credited  what  I  have  said,  or,  rather,  she  is  not 
impressed  by  it.  Yet  it  is  all  true.  And  probably 
there  is  much  more,  fie  is  not  a  person  with  whom 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  125 

you  should  have  intimate  acquaintance,  or,  indeed, 
any  acquaintance.  As  Madam  Carroll  will  not  do 
so,  will  you  let  me  warn  you  ?" 

Miss  Carroll  started  slightly  as  he  said  this.  Then 
she  recovered  herself.  "  Surely  it  is  nothing  to  me," 
she  said,  indifferently,  with  a  slight  emphasis  on  the 
"  me." 

Owen  watched  the  indifferent  expression.  "She 
is  acting,"  he  thought.  "  She  does  it  well !"  Then 
aloud,  "  On  the  contrary,  I  suppose  it  to  be  a  great 
deal  to  you,"  he  answered,  his  eyes,  intent  and  sor 
rowful,  fixed  full  upon  her  over  the  little  mother's 
head. 

Madam  Carroll  took  down  her  handkerchief,  and 
the  two  women  faced  him  with  startled  gaze.  Sara 
was  calm ;  but  Madam  Carroll's  eyes,  at  first  only 
startled,  were  now  growing  frightened.  She  turned 
her  small  face  towards  her  daughter  dumbly,  as  if 
for  help. 

The  girl  drew  her  mother  more  closely  to  her 
side.  "  And  what  right  have  you  to  suppose  any 
thing  ?"  she  said  to  Owen,  with  composure.  "  Are 
you  our  guardian  ?" 

"  Would  that  I  were !"  answered  Owen,  with  deep 
est  feeling  in  his  tone.  "I  don't  £ suppose'  any 
thing,  Miss  Carroll — I  know.  I  have  been  unfortu 
nate  enough  to  see  you  with  this  man,  or  going  to 


126  FOR  THE  MAJOR, 

meet  him,  and  it  has  made  me  wretched.  But  do 
not  be  troubled — no  one  else  has  seen  it,  and  with 
me  you  are  perfectly  safe ;  1  would  guard  you  with 
my  life.  I  had  intended  to  expose  him ;  I  am  in 
possession  of  some  facts  which  ,tell  heavily  against 
him  (Madam  Carroll  knows  what  they  are) ;  but 
now  how  can  I,  when  I  fear  that  he — when  I  know 
that  you — "  he  paused ;  his  voice  was  trembling  a 
little,  and  he  wished  to  control  the  tremor. 

"  Arid  if  I  should  tell  you  that  there  was  no  occa, 
sion  for  either  your  fears  or  your  advice  3"  said  Sara 
Carroll,  after  a  moment's  silence.  She  raised  her 
eyes  again,  and  met  his  gaze  steadily.  "If  I  should 
tell  you  that  Mr.  Dupont — to  whom  you  object  so 
strongly — had  the  right  to  be  with  me  as  much  as 
he  pleased,  and  that  I  had  given  him  this  right, 
surely  you  would  then  Understand  that  your  warn 
ing  came  quite  too  late,  and  that  both  your  opinion 
and  your  advice  were  superfluous  ?  And  you  would, 
perhaps,  spare  us  further  conversation  on  a  matter 
that  concerns  only  ourselves." 

"Am  I  to  believe  this?"  said  Owen. 

"You  have  it  from  me  directly — I  don't  know 
what  better  authority  you  would  have.  I  tell  you 
in  order  to  show  you,  decisively,  that  further  inter 
ference  on  your  part  will  be  unnecessary.  It  is  a 
secret  as  yet,  and,  for  the  present,  we  wish  it  to  re- 


;  THE    GIRL   DREW   HER   MOTHER  MORE    CLOSELY   TO   HER  SIDE." 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  127 

main  one ;  we  trust  to  you  not  to  betray  it.  And  I 
think  you  will  now  keep  to  yourself,  will  you  not, 
what  you  know,  or  fancy  you  know,  against  him  ?" 
She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"If  I  could  only  have  seen  your  father!"  said 
Owen,  with  bitterest  regret. 

Her  face  changed,  her  arm  dropped  from  her 
mother's  shoulders ;  she  turned  abruptly  from  him. 

Left  alone,  Madam  Carroll  straightened  herself,  as 
if  trying  to  resume  her  usual  manner.  She  looked 
after  Sara,  who  had  crossed  the  broad  room  to  a 
window  opposite.  Then  she  looked  at  Owen.  She 
came  closer  to  him.  "I  am  sure  it  will  not  last,  this 
— this  engagement  of  hers,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper, 
shielding  her  lips  with  her  hand  as  if  to  make  her 
tone  still  lower.  "It  is  only  a  little  fancy  of  the 
moment,  you  know,  a  fancy  founded  upon  his  genius, 
his  musical  genius,  and  his  lovely  voice.  But  it  will 
pass,  Mr.  Owen  ;  I  am  sure  it  will  pass.  And  in  the 
meantime  our  course — yours  and  mine — should  be 
just  silence.  Everything  must  go  on  as  usual,  and 
you  must  say  nothing  against  him  to  any  one ;  that 
is  the  most  important  of  all.  No  one  has  suspected 
it  but  you.  She  has  been  rather  incautious ;  but  I 
will  see  that  that  is  mended,  so  that  no  one  else  shall 
suspect.  If  we  are  careful  and  silent,  Mr.  Owen, 
you  and  I — the  only  ones  who  know — and  if  we 


128  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

simply  have  patience  and  wait,  all  will  yet  be  well ; 
I  assure  you  all  will  yet  be  well."  She  smiled,  and 
looked  up  anxiously  into  his  face  with  her  soft  blue 
eyes ;  she  was  quite  her  gentle  self  again. 

"  She  is  protecting  her  husband's  daughter  to  the 
extent  of  her  power,"  thought  the  young  man,  who 
was  listening;  "  that  has  been  the  secret  of  her  enig 
matical  manner  from  the  beginning."  But  while  he 
thought  this,  he  was  frowning  with  the  pain  her 
words  had  given  him — a  "  fancy  of  the  moment " — 
Louis  Dupont! 

"Promise  me  to  say  nothing  against  him,"  con 
tinued  Madam  Carroll,  in  the  same  earnest  whisper, 
still  smiling  anxiously,  and  looking  up  in  his  face. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  say  nothing.  How  could  I  do 
otherwise  now  ?"  answered  Owen.  "  But  my  trouble 
is  as  great  as  ever,  and  my  fear.  You  do  not  com 
prehend  him,  Madam  Carroll.  You  do  not  see  what 
he  really  is." 

"Oh,  I  comprehend  him — I  comprehend  him," 
said  Madam  Carroll,  jn  a  strained  though  still  whis 
pering  tone.  "  I  do  my  best,  Mr.  Owen,"  she  added, 
in  a  broken  voice — "  my  very  best." 

These  last  words  were  uttered  aloud.  Sara  Car 
roll  left  the  window  and  came  back  to  her  mother; 
she  took  her  hands  in  hers.  "  Kindly  excuse  us  now," 
she  said  to  the  clergyman,  with  quiet  dignity. 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  129 

He  bowed,  and  left  the  room,  his  face  still  full  of 
trouble  and  pain.  They  heard  him  close  the  front 
door  behind  him. 

"  I  think  he  will  say  nothing,"  said  Sara. 

Madam  Carroll  had  drawn  her  hands  away;  she 
stood  motionless,  looking  at  the  carpet. 

"  Yes,  it  is  safe  now ;  don't  you  think  so  ?"  Sara 
continued,  musingly. 

Her  step -mother  raised  her  eyes.  There  was  a 
flash  in  them.  "  I  bore  it  because  I  had  to.  But  it 
was  the  hardest  thing  of  all  to  bear.  You  despise 
him,  you  know  you  do.  You  always  have.  You 
have  been  pitiless,  suspicious,  cruel." 

"Not  lately,  mamma,"  said  the  girl.  She  put  her 
arms  round  the  little  figure,  and,  with  infinite  pity, 
drew  it  towards  her.  Madam  Carroll  at  first  resist 
ed  ;  then  the  tense  muscles  relaxed,  and  she  let  her 
head  rest  against  her  daughter's  breast.  The  lashes 
fell  over  her  bright,  dry  eyes. 

"  You  will  never  be  able  to  keep  it  up,"  she  mur 
mured,  after  a  moment,  her  eyes  still  closed. 

"  Yes,  I  shall,  mamma." 

"  Never,  never." 

"I  could  do  a  great  deal  more  for  my  dear  fa 
ther's  sake,"  answered  the  girl,  after  a  short  hesi 
tation. 

Madam  Carroll  began  to  sob.     "I  have  been  a 


130  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

good  wife  to  him,  Sara,"  she  murmured,  appeal- 
ingly,  piteously. 

"  Indeed  you  have,  mamma.  You  are  all  his  hap 
piness,  all  his  life;  he  could  not  live  without  you. 
But  you  ought  to  rest ;  let  me  go  with  you  up-stairs." 

"  I  must  go  alone,"  answered  Madam  Carroll.  She 
had  repressed  her  sobs,  but  her  breath  still  came  and 
went  unevenly.  "  It  is  not  that  I  am  angry,  Sara ; 
do  not  think  that.  I  was — but  it  has  passed ;  I  am 
quite  reasonable  now — as  you  see.  But,  for  a  little 
while,  I  must  be  alone,  quite  alone." 

She  left  the  room  with  her  usual  quick,  light  step. 
After  she  had  gone,  Sara  stood  for  a  few  moments 
with  her  hands  clasped  over  her  eyes.  Then  she 
went  to  the  library. 

Scar  was  playing  dominoes,  Roland  against  Bay 
ard  ;  and  the  Major  was  watching  the  game.  His 
daughter  bent  her  head,  and  kissed  his  forehead ; 
then  she  sat  down  beside  him,  holding  his  hand  in 
hers,  and  stroking  it  tenderly. 

"  Well,  my  daughter,  you  seem  to  think  a  good 
deal  of  me  to-day,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling. 

"Not  only  to-day,  but  always,  papa — always,"  an 
swered  the  girl,  with  emotion. 

"  Roland  is  very  dull  this  morning,"  said  the  Ma 
jor,  explaining  the  situation.  "He  has  lost  three 
games,  and  is  going  to  lose  a  fourth." 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  131 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

FAR  EDGEELEY  was  deprived  of  its  rector.  Mr. 
Owen  had  gone  to  the  coast  to  attend  the  Diocesan 
Convention.  But  as  he  had  started  more  than  a 
week  before  the  time  of  its  opening,  and  had  re 
mained  a  week  after  its  sessions  were  ended,  Mrs. 
General  Hibbard  was  of  the  opinion  that  he  was  at 
tending  to  other  things  as  well.  She  had,  indeed, 
heard  a  rumor  before  he  came  that  there  was  some 
one  (some  one  in  whom  he  felt  an  interest)  else 
where.  Now  it  is  well  known  that  there  is  nothing 
more  depressing  for  a  parish  than  a  rector  with  an 
interest,  large  or  small,  "  elsewhere."  St.  John  in 
the  Wilderness  was  therefore  much  relieved  when 
its  rector  returned,  with  no  signs  of  having  left  any 
portion  of  himself  or  his  interest  behind  him.  And 
Mrs.  General  Hibbard  lost  ground. 

Mr.  Owen  had  started  eastward  on  the  day  after 
his  interview  with  the  two  ladies  of  Carroll  Farms ; 
he  had  started  westward  on  the  day  after  the  arrival 
of  a  letter  from  his  junior  warden.  This  letter, 


132  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

written  in  a  clear,  old-fashioned  hand,  decorated  with 
much  underscoring,  was  a  mixture  of  the  formal 
phraseology  of  the  warden's  youth  and  that  too- 
modern  lightness  which  he  had  learned  in  his  later 
years,  and  of  which  Miss  Honoria  so  justly  disap 
proved.  He  was  supposed  to  be  writing  about 
church  business.  Having  finished  that  (in  six  lines), 
he  added  an  epitome  of  the  news  of  the  whole  vil 
lage,  from  the  slippers  which  Miss  Sophy  Greer,  at 
the  north  end  of  Edgerley  Street,  was  working  for 
him  (the  rector)  —  ecclesiastical  borders,  with  the 
motto  "  Vestigia  nulla  retrorsum  " — down  to  the  last 
new  duck  in  the  duck -pond  at  Chapultepec,  the 
south  end  of  it.  Among  the  items  was  this:  "  That 
amusing  fellow  Dupont  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  ill,  and 
I  suspect  seriously.  It  is  a  return  of  the  fever  he 
had  in  New  York,  I  am  told.  He  is  at  the  Cove, 
and  the  Walleys  are  taking  care  of  him.  It  has 
leaked  out "  ("  leaked  out  " — oh,  poor  Miss  Hono 
ria  !)  "  that  he  has  no  money,  not  even  enough  to 
pay  for  his  medicines — those  musicians  are  always 
an  improvident  lot,  you  know.  But  our  lovely 
Madam  Carroll,  ministering  angel  that  she  is,  pity 
ing  lady  of  the  manor,  has  supplied  everything  that 
has  been  necessary.  I  have  just  heard,  as  I  write 
these  lines,  that  the  poor  fellow  is  no  better." 

The  rector,  upon  his  return,  busied  himself  in  at- 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  133 

tending  to  the  many  duties  which  had  accumulated 
during  his  absence.  He  did  not  go  to  the  Farms 
immediately;  but  as  he  was  making  no  calls  for  the 
present — owing  to  the  accumulation — the  omission 
was  not  noticed.  The  musician  was  very  ill,  and 
every  one  was  sorry.  His  poverty  was  now  gener 
ally  known ;  but  Madam  Carroll  was  doing  all  that 
was  needful,  and  the  poor  wanderer  lacked  nothing. 
That  was  what  they  called  him  now  —  the  "poor 
wanderer ;"  it  was  a  delicate  way  of  phrasing  the 
fact  that  he  was  without  means.  Far  Edgerley  peo 
ple  were  as  far  as  possible  from  being  mercenary ; 
they  had  no  intention  of  turning  their  backs  upon 
Dnpont  because  he  was  poor.  They  were  poor 
themselves,  and,  besides,  that  had  never  been  the 
Southern  way.  They  would  gladly  have  helped  him 
now,  had  there  been  opportunity,  and  they  looked 
forward  to  helping  him  as  far  as  they  were  able  so 
soon  as  he  should  have  recovered  his  health.  But 
at  present  Madam  Carroll  was  doing  the  whole,  and 
the  whole  was  only — could  be  only — a  doctor  and 
medicines. 

In  all  this  there  was  nothing  of  Sara ;  that  secret, 
the  rector  perceived,  had  been  carefully  kept.  There 
was  nothing,  too,  of  the  recent  evil  story  concerning 
the  musician,  which  he  had  related  to  Madam  par- 
roll.  But  he  had  been  aware  that  if  he  himself 

10 


134  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

should  be  silent,  it  was  probable  that  nothing  of  it 
would  reach  Far  Edgerley,  at  least  for  some  time. 
For  the  mission  station  was  remote,  and  the  moun 
tain  people  were  very  proud  in  their  way,  proud  and 
reticent.  They  had,  too,  an  opinion  of  Far  Edger 
ley  which  was  not  unlike  the  opinion  Far  Edgerley 
had  of  the  lower  town.  Pride  in  these  mountains 
seemed  a  matter  of  altitudes.  Owen  knew  that  he 
was  glad  that  these  two  hidden  things  had  remained 
undiscovered ;  that,  at  least,  was  clear  in  the  con 
flicting  feelings  that  haunted  his  troubled  heart. 

He  had  returned  on  Monday  evening ;  the  week 
passed  and  Sunday  dawned  without  his  having  seen 
any  of  the  Carrolls.  They  came  to  church  as  usual ; 
that  is,  the  Major  came,  with  his  wife  and  little  Scar ; 
Miss  Carroll  was  absent.  After  service  the  Major 
waited.  The  Major  always  waited.  He  waited  to 
speak  to  his  rector ;  it  was  a  little  attention  he  al 
ways  paid.  Owen  knew  that  he  was  waiting,  knew 
that  he  was  standing  there  at  the  head  of  the  aisle 
in  his  military  attitude,  with  his  prayer-book  under 
his  arm ;  yet,  although  he  knew  it,  it  was  some 
minutes  before  he  came  forth.  When  at  length  he 
did  appear,  the  Major  advanced,  shook  hands  with 
him,  and  asked  how  he  was.  The  rector  replied  that 
he  was  quite  well. 

"  Mr.  Owen  is  probably  the  better  for  his  jour- 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  135 

ney,"  said  Madam  Carroll,  joining  her  husband  in 
the  open  space  at  the  foot  of  the  chancel  steps, 
where  the  two  men  were  standing.  "  A  journey  is 
always  so  pleasant,  and  especially  a  journey  to  the 
coast." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  Major ;  "  your  journey.  I 
hope  you  enjoyed  it  ?" 

"  The  coast  is  considered  so  beneficial,"  continued 
Madam  CarrolL  "  For  my  own  part,  however,  I  pre 
fer  our  mountain  air;  it  seems  to  me  more  bracing. 
And  the  Major  thinks  so  too." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Major ;  "  I  have  often  made 
the  observation."  He  said  a  few  words  more,  shook 
hands  with  the  rector  a  second  time,  bowed,  and 
then  offered  his  arm  to  his  wife.  She  took  it,  with 
a  farewell  smile  to  the  rector,  and  they  went  down 
the  aisle  together  through  the  empty  church  towards 
the  open  door.  And  Owen,  who  had  been  looking 
forward  with  eagerness,  yet  at  the  same  time  with 
dread,  to  his  first  meeting  with  Miss  Carroll  or  her 
mother,  found  himself  almost  able  to  smile  over  the 
contrast  between  his  own  inward  trouble  and  pain 
and  the  smiling  self-possession  of  the  little  lady  of 
the  Farms.  There  rose  before  him  her  strange  man 
ner  during  the  beginning  of  that  last  morning  in 
terview  in  her  drawing-room  ;  and  then  her  fright 
ened  face  turned  towards  her  daughter ;  and  then 


136  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

her  effort  to  excuse  to  him  that  daughter's  avowal. 
But  in  thinking  of  all  this,  he  soon  lost  himself  in 
thoughts  of  the  daughter  alone.  This  was  not  a 
new  experience ;  he  forced  his  mind  to  turn  from 
the  haunting  subject,  in  active  preparations  for  the 
duties  of  the  afternoon. 

In  the  meantime  the  Major  and  his  wife  had 
reached  the  porch.  Scar  was  waiting  for  them  out 
side,  sitting  on  a  little  tombstone  in  the  sunshine, 
and  a  number  of  Far  Edgerlej  people  were  stand 
ing  about  the  gate.  The  Major  bowed  to  these  with 
much  courtesy,  and  Madam  Carroll  with  much  grace ; 
they  entered  their  carriage,  Inches  folded  up  the 
steps,  climbed  to  his  perch,  the  mules  started,  and 
"  the  equipage  "  rolled  away. 

They  reached  home  ;  but,  in  getting  out,  the  bear 
ing  of  the  Major  was  not  quite  so  military  as  it  had 
been  at  the  church  door.  Inches  came  to  his  as 
sistance,  and  he  took  his  wife's  arm,  and  kept  it 
until  he  was  in  his  own  easy -chair  again  in  the 
library.  There  he  sat  all  the  afternoon.  His  wife 
—  for  she  did  not  leave  him  —  read  aloud  to  Scar, 
and  heard  him  recite  his  little  Sunday  lessons.  Then 
she  took  him  on  her  lap  and  told  him  Bible  stories, 
speaking  in  a  low  tone,  as  the  Major  was  now  asleep. 
They  were  close  beside  him,  mother  and  little  son. 
The  child's  face  was  a  curious  mixture  of  her  deli- 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  137 

cate  rose-tinted  prettiness  and  the  bold  outlines  of 
his  father. 

The  sun,  which  had  been  journeying  down  the 
western  sky,  now  touched  the  top  of  Lonely  Moun 
tain,  and  immediately  all  its  side  was  robed  in  pur 
ple  velvet,  and  its  long  summit  tipped  with  gold. 
Still  farther  sank  the  monarch  ;  and  now  he  was 
out  of  sight.  Then  rose  such  a  splendor  of  color  in 
the  west  that  it  flooded  even  this  quiet  room  across 
the  valley,  turning  the  old  paper  on  the  walls  into 
cloth  of  gold,  and  Scar's  flaxen  hair  into  a  little 
halo.  The  Major  was  now  awake  ;  he  moved  his 
easy-chair  to  the  open  window  in  order  to  see  the 
sunset.  Scar  got  another  chair,  climbed  up,  and  sat 
down  beside  him.  "  I  think,  papa,"  he  said,  after 
some  moments  of  silence,  during  which  he  had 
meditatively  watched  the  glow  —  "I  think  it  very 
probable  that  the  little  children  who  have  to  die 
young  live  over  in  that  particular  part  of  heaven. 
For  those  beautiful  colors  would  amuse  them,  you 
know ;  and  they  must  be  very  lonely  up  in  the  sky, 
without  their  fathers  and  mothers." 

"  Fathers  and  mothers  die  too,  sometimes,  my  boy," 
answered  the  Major,  his  eyes  turning  misty.  He 
took  Scar's  little  hand,  and  held  it  in  his  own. 

His  wife  came  up  behind  him  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  The  old  Major  looked  up  at  her  as 


138  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

she  stood  by  his  chair,  with  a  great  trust  and  affec 
tion  in  his  dim  glance.  For  of  late  the  Major  had 
been  growing  older  rapidly  ;  his  eyes  were  losing 
their  clearness  of  vision  ;  there  were  now  many 
sounds  he  could  not  hear.  But  he  always  heard 
every  intonation  of  her  voice  ;  always  saw  the  hue 
of  her  dress,  and  any  little  change  in  its  arrange 
ment.  Where  she  was  concerned,  his  dulled  senses 
were  young  again. 

"  My  sister  Sara  is  coming,"  announced  Scar.  "  I 
can  see  her.  I  can  see  the  top  of  her  bonnet  above 
the  hedge,  because  she  is  so  tall."  And  soon  the 
girl's  figure  appeared  in  sight.  She  opened  the  gate, 
and  came  up  the  path  towards  the  front  door.  Scar 
leaned  forward  and  waved  his  hand.  She  returned 
his  greeting,  looking  at  the  group  of  three  in  the 
window — father,  mother,  and  child. 

The  Major  could  not  see  his  daughter,  but  he 
turned  his  face  in  the  direction  of  the  path  and  gave 
a  little  bow  and  smile.  "  She  has  been  gone  a  long 
time,"  he  said  to  his  wife ;  "  almost  all  day." 

His  wife  did  not  reply ;  she  had  left  the  room. 
She  met  Sara  in  the  hall.  "I  have  come  back  for 
you,  mamma,"  whispered  the  girl.  "  I  think  the 
time  has  come." 

"I  will  go  immediately,"  said  Madam  Carroll, 
walking  quickly  towards  the  stairs.  Then  she 


FOR   THE  MAJOR.  139 

stopped.  "  But  how  can  I  ?  You  would  have  to  go 
with  me.  And  at  this  hour  the  Major  would  notice 
it.  He  would  notice  it  if  we  should  both  leave  him. 
It  would  trouble  him."  She  looked  at  Sara  as  she 
stood  uttering  these  sentences.  Though  her  voice 
was  quiet,  the  suffering  in  her  eyes  was  pitiable  to  see. 

"  Go,  mamma.  For  this  one  time  do  not  mind 
that.  Judith  will  be  here." 

"No,"  answered  Madam  Carroll,  with  the  same 
measured  utterance ;  "  the  Major  must  not  be  troub 
led,  his  comfort  must  always  be  first.  But  as  he  is  gen 
erally  tired  on  Sunday  evenings,  perhaps  he  will  go  to 
bed  early.  I  must  wait,  in  any  case,  until  he  is  asleep." 

"  Mamma,  you  cannot  bear  it,"  urged  Sara,  fol 
lowing  her. 

"Instead  of  saying  that,  you  should  tell  me  if 
there  is  hope — hope  that  I  may  not  be  too  late,"  said 
Madam  Carroll  almost  sternly,  putting  aside  the 
girl's  outstretched  hands. 

"  I  think  he  may  not — they  said  he  would  not 

Mrs.  Walley  said,  <  He  will  pass  at  dawn,' "  answered 
Sara,  using  the  mountain  phrase. 

"  I  may  then  be  in  time,"  said  Madam  Carroll,  in 
the  same  calm  voice.  She  turned  the  handle  of  the 
door.  "  You  had  better  join  us  soon.  Your  father 
has  been  asking  for  you."  She  went  in,  closing  the 
door  behind  her. 


14:0  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

When  Sara  entered,  fifteen  minutes  later,  she 
found  her  singing  the  evening  hymn  to  the  Major. 
The  Major  liked  to  have  her  sing  that  hymn  on  Sun 
day  evenings,  and  Scar  liked  it  too,  because  he  could 
join  in  with  his  soft  little  alto. 

"  The  day  is  past  and  gone, 

The  evening  shades  appear ; 
0  may  we  all  remember  well 

The  night  of  death  draws  near," 

sang  the  wife,  in  her  sweet  voice,  sitting  close  to  her 
husband's  chair,  so  that  he  could  hear  the  words. 

Not  long  afterwards  the  Major  said  he  was  tired  ; 
it  was  not  often  that  he  was  tired  so  early  in  the 
evening,  but  to-night,  for  some  reason,  he  felt  quite 
weary ;  he  thought  he  would  go  to  bed.  It  was 
half -past  eight;  at  nine  he  and  Scar  were  both 
asleep,  and  the  two  women  left  the  house  together. 
Walley's  Cove  was  not  far  from  the  Farms,  but  it 
was  farther  up  the  mountain,  where  there  was  no 
road,  only  paths;  they  could  not,  therefore, go  in  the 
carriage ;  they  could  have  taken  Caleb  Inches  with 
them,  but  in  that  peaceful  neighborhood  escort  for 
mere  safety's  sake  was  not  necessary,  and  they  pre 
ferred  to  be  alone. 

"  Take  my  arm,  mamma,"  said  Sara,  as  they  began 
to  ascend. 

But  Madam  Carroll  would  not.  She  walked  on  un 
aided.  Her  step  was  firm.  She  did  not  once  speak. 


FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

In  the  small  room  under  the  roof,  which  he  had 
occupied  since  his  return,  lay  the  young  man  who 
was  now  dying;  for  it  needed  but  one  glance  to 
show  that  the  summons  had  come :  he  was  passing 
away.  The  farmer's  wife,  much  affected,  knelt  be 
side  him ;  the  doctor  had  gone,  she  said,  but  a  short 
time  before ;  there  was  nothing  more  that  he  could 
do,  and  he  was  needed  elsewhere.  The  farmer  him 
self  was  fanning  the  unconscious  face.  Madam  Car 
roll  took  the  fan. 

"  Let  me  do  that,"  she  said.  "  I  know  you  feel  as 
if  your  children  were  needing  you  down-stairs." 

For  the  three  little  children  had  been  left  alone 
in  the  room  below,  and,  disturbed  by  the  absence  of 
father  and  mother,  were  not  asleep ;  one  of  them 
had  begun  to  cry  a  little  at  intervals.  The  farmer 
went  down,  his  clumsy  boots  making  no  sound  on  the 
uncarpeted  stairway,  so  careful  was  his  tread.  Mad 
am  Carroll  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  poor  bed,  and 
fanned  the  sleeping  face ;  the  eyes  were  closed,  the 
long,  dark  lashes  lay  on  the  thin  cheeks,  the  breath 
came  slowly  through  the  slightly  parted  lips.  The 
farmer's  wife  began  to  pray  in  a  low  voice ;  she  was 
a  devout  Baptist,  and  she  had  had  her  pastor  there 
in  the  afternoon,  and  had  fancied  that  the  dying  man 
was  conscious  for  a  time,  and  that  he  had  listened 
and  responded.  She  had  grown  fond  of  the  poor 


14:2  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

musician  in  taking  care  of  him,  and  the  tears  rolled 
down  her  sunburned  cheeks  as  she  prayed.  Madam 
Carroll  remained  calm  ;  she  moved  the  fan  with  even 
sweep  to  and  fro.  She  had  taken  off  her  bonnet,  as 
the  night  was  warm,  and  with  her  golden  curls,  her 
pink-tinted  complexion,  and  the  same  pretty  dress 
she  had  worn  to  church  in  the  morning,  she  was  a 
contrast  to  the  rough,  bare  room,  to  the  farmer's  wife, 
in  her  coarse  homespun  gown,  and  even  to  her  own 
daughter,  who,  in  her  plain  black  dress,  her  face  pale 
and  sad,  was  standing  near. 

An  hour  passed.  The  child's  wail  below  had  now 
in  it  the  unmistakable  sound  of  suffering.  "  Pray  go 
down,"  said  Madam  Carroll ;  "  I  am  sure  your  baby 
needs  you." 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  Madam  Carroll ; 
it  doesn't  seem  right,"  the  woman  answered,  yet  lis 
tening,  too,  at  the  same  time,  to  the  baby's  wail 
below. 

"  You  need  have  no  hesitation.  I  have  had  ex 
perience  of  this  kind  before ;  and  besides,  I  do  not 
easily  lose  my  self-possession." 

"  Yes,  you  hev  got  a  strong  hold  on  yersel,"  said 
the  farmer's  wife  admiringly.  They  spoke  in  low 
tones,  though  sounds  of  earth  could  no  longer  pene 
trate  to  that  gray,  still  border-land  which  the  sleeper's 
soul  was  crossing.  "  I  know  you  keer  for  the  poor 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  143 

young  man  ;  you  keer  for  him  as  much  as  I  do.  For 
yer  see  he  ain't  got  no  mother  to  be  sorry  for  him, 
poor  fellow,"  she  continued,  laying  her  rough  hand 
tenderly  on  his  head ;  "  and  you  and  me  knows, 
Madam  Carroll,  how  his  mother'd  feel.  There  ain't 
nothing  like  the  way  a  mother  keers  for  her  boy." 

Sara  came  forward.  "  I  am  sure  your  child  needs 
you,  Mrs.  Walley,"  she  said ;  "  please  go  down  at 
once.  I  promise  to  call  you  if  anything  should  be 
needed." 

The  child  was  crying  again,  and  the  mother  went. 
Sara  softly  closed  the  door.  It  had  not  been  closed 
until  then. 

A  little  before  midnight,  Dupont,  who  had  been 
for  six  hours  in  a  lethargic  sleep,  stirred  and  woke. 
Madam  Carroll  bent  over  him.  He  knew  her;  he 
turned  his  head  towards  her  and  lay  looking  at  her, 
his  large  eyes  strangely  solemn  in  their  tin  moving 
gaze.  Sara  came  and  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bed,  fanning  him  with  the  fan  which  her  mother  had 
relinquished.  Thus  he  remained,  looking  at  Madam 
Carroll,  with  his  slow,  partially  comprehending  stare. 
Then  gradually  the  stare  grew  conscious  and  intelli 
gent.  And  then  it  grew  full  of  expression.  It  was 
wonderful  to  see  the  mind  come  back  and  look  once 
more  from  the  windows  of  its  deserted  house  of  clay 
— the  last  look  on  earth.  Madam  Carroll,  bending 


144:  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

towards  him,  returned  his  gaze;  she  had  laid  one 
hand  on  his  forehead,  the  other  on  his  breast ;  her 
fair  hair  touched  his  shoulder.  She  said  nothing ; 
she  did  not  move;  but  all  her  being  was  concen 
trated  in  her  eyes.  The  dying  man  also  was  silent : 
probably  he  had  passed  beyond  the  power  of  speech. 
Thus,  motionless,  they  continued  to  look  at  each 
other  for  a  number  of  minutes.  Then  consciousness 
faded,  the  light  left  the  windows;  a  few  seconds 
more  and  the  soul  was  gone.  Madam  Carroll,  still 
in  silence,  laid  her  hand  upon  the  heart  and  temples; 
all  was  still.  Then  she  gently  closed  the  eyes. 

Sara,  weeping,  came  to  her  side.  "  Do  not,  Sara ; 
some  one  might  come  in,"  said  her  mother.  Her 
hands  rested  on  the  closed  lids.  Then,  her  task 
done,  she  stood  for  a  moment  beside  the  couch,  si 
lently,  looking  at  the  still  face  on  the  pillow.  "You 
must  go  down  and  tell  them,"  she  said,  in  a  com 
posed  tone.  "  Farmer  Walley  must  go  immediately 
for  Sabrina  Barnes  and  her  sister.  You  can  say  that 
the  funeral  will  be  from  this  house,  and  that  they 
had  better  ask  their  own  minister — the  one  who  was 
here  this  afternoon — to  officiate." 

"Oh,  mamma,  do  not  try  to  think  of  everything; 
it  is  not  necessary  now,"  said  Sara,  beseechingly. 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,  Sara,"  answered  Madam  Carroll. 
And  Sara  obeyed  her. 


"THE  LAST  LOOK  ON  EARTH." 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  145 

When  she  returned,  Madam  Carroll  was  arranging 
the  pillows  and  straightening  the  coarse  sheet.  She 
had  folded  the  musician's  thin  hands  over  his  breast 
and  smoothed  his  disordered  hair. 

"  The  child  has  been  in  pain  all  this  time,"  said 
the  daughter,  "and  they  are  frightened;  Farmer 
Walley  will  go  for  Sabriua  Barnes  and  for  the  doctor 
at  the  same  time.  I  told  Mrs.  "Walley  that  she  need 
not  come  up,  that  we  would  stay.  In  any  case  she 
could  hardly  leave  her  baby  now.  But  oh,  mamma, 
do  not  try  to  do  that;  do  not  try  to  do  anything 
more." 

"Yes,  we  will  stay,"  said  Madam  Carroll.  She 
took  a  chair,  placed  it  beside  the  bed,  so  that  it  faced 
the  figure  lying  there,  and  sat  down;  she  put  her 
feet  on  a  footstool  and  folded  her  hands. 

"Dear  mamma,  do  not  sit  there  looking  like  that; 
do  not  try  to  be  so  quiet.  No  one  will  be  here  for 
half  an  hour:  cry,  mamma;  let  yourself  cry.  You 
have  this  little  time,  and — and  it  will  be  your  last." 

"  I  will  not  cry,"  answered  Madam  Carroll ;  "  I 
have  not  cried  at  all ;  tears  I  can  keep  back.  But  I 
should  like  to  kiss  him,  Sara,  if  you  will  keep  watch. 
He  would  like  to  have  his  mother  kiss  him  once  be 
fore  he  goes  away."  And  bending  forward  as  she 
sat,  she  kissed  tenderly  the  forehead  arid  the  closed 
eyes.  The  touch  overcame  her;  she  did  not  weep, 


14:6  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

bat,  putting  her  arms  round  him,  she  eat  looking  at 
him  piteously.  "  He  was  such  a  dear  little  baby!" 
she  murmured.  "  I  was  so  proud  of  him  !  He  was 
always  so  handsome  and  so  brave — such  a  sturdy  lit 
tle  fellow!  When  he  was  only  six  years  old  he  said, 
i  I  want  to  grow  up  quick  and  be  big,  so  that  I  can 
take  care  of  you,  mamma.' "  She  stroked  back  his 
dark  hair.  "  You  meant  no  harm  ;  none  of  it  was 
your  fault,  Julian.  Do  not  think  your  mother  has 
any  blame  for  you,  my  darling  boy.  But  now  you 
know  that  I  have  riot."  She  passed  her  hands  softly 
over  his  wasted  cheeks.  "May  I  put  him  in  our — in 
your — lot  in  the  church -yard,  Sara?  It  will  only 
take  a  little  space,  and  the  lot  is  so  large ;  there  isn't 
any  other  place  where  I  should  like  to  have  him 
lying.  People  would  think  it  was  our  kindness ;  in 
that  way  it  could  be  done.  And  do  not  put  me  too 
far  from  him,  when  my  time  comes ;  not  too  far. 
For  you  know  he  was,  Sara,  my  dear  boy,  my  darling 
first-born  son."  She  murmured  this  over  and  over, 
her  arms  round  him.  Then,  "  He  is  not  lying  quite 
straight,"  she  said.  And  she  tried  to  move  his  head 
a  little.  But  already  it  had  the  strange  heaviness  of 
death,  it  was  like  a  weight  of  stone  in  her  small 
hands.  As  she  realized  this,  her  face  became  con 
vulsed  for  the  first  time ;  her  whole  frame  was  shak 
en  by  her  grief. 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  147 

Footsteps  were  now  audible  coming  up  the  moun 
tain  path  outside.  "Mamma,  they  are  here,"  said 
Sara,  from  her  post  at  the  window. 

But  Madam  Carroll  had  already  controlled  herself. 
She  rose,  pressed  one  long,  last  kiss  on  the  still  face ; 
then  she  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  When  Sa- 
brina  Barnes  and  her  sister,  the  two  old  women  who  in 
that  rural  neighborhood  filled  the  office  of  watching 
by  the  dead,  came  up  the  stairs,  she  was  waiting  for 
them.  In  a  clear,  low  voice  she  gave  them  her  direc 
tions  :  the  expenses  of  the  funeral  she  should  herself 
assume.  Then  she  passed  down  the  stairs  with  Sara 
on  her  way  home,  stopping  to  speak  to  the  mother 
of  the  sick  child  in  the  lower  room,  and  suggest  some 
new  remedy, 

Mrs.  Walley  was  distressed  at  the  idea  of  their 
going  home  alone;  but  her  husband  had  not  yet  re 
turned,  and  the  ladies  did  not  wish  to  wait.  The 
path  was  safe  enough ;  it  was  only  the  loneliness  of 
it.  But  the  ladies  said  that  they  did  not  mind  the 
loneliness.  They  went  down  the  mountain  by  the 
light  of  the  stars,  reaching  the  Farms  a  little  after 
two  o'clock.  Dupont  had  died  at  midnight. 

The  funeral  took  place  on  Tuesday  afternoon. 
The  Baptist  minister  officiated,  but  all  the  congrega 
tion  of  St.  John's  were  also  present.  The  farm-house 
was  full,  and  people  stood  in  the  garden  outside  bare- 

11 


14:8  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

headed  and  reverent.  Then  the  little  procession  was 
formed,  and  went  down  the  mountain  towards  St. 
John's,  where  the  Carrolls,  with  their  usual  goodness, 
as  everybody  said,  had  given  a  place  for  the  poor 
stranger  in  their  own  lot.  The  coffin  was  borne  on 
men's  shoulders  in  the  old-fashioned  wray.  It  was 
covered  with  flowers.  Every  one  had  sent  some,  for 
they  all  remembered  how  fond  he  had  been  of  their 
flower-gardens.  They  recalled  his  sweet  voice  and 
his  songs,  his  merry  ways  with  children.  There  was 
a  pathos,  too,  in  his  poverty,  because  they  had  not 
suspected  it.  And  so  they  all  thought  of  him  kindly 
as  he  was  borne  by  on  his  way  to  his  last  rest. 

Madam  Carroll  and  Sara  had  not  been  at  the  farm 
house.  But  they  were  at  the  grave.  They  were  in 
waiting  there  when  the  procession  entered  the 
church -yard  gate.  They  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
coffin  as  it  rested  on  the  bier  during  the  prayer. 
They  stood  there  while  it  was  lowered,  and  while 
the  grave  was  being  filled.  This  was  the  custom  in 
Far  Edgerley:  everybody  stayed.  But  when  this 
task  was  completed  the  people  dispersed;  the  ser 
vices  were  considered  at  an  end. 

Flower  had  begun  to  shape  the  mound,  and  Mad 
am  Carroll  still  waited.  Seeing  this,  several  persons 
came  back,  and  a  little  group  gathered. 

"  Ah,  well,  poor  friendless  young  man,  his  life  here 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  14-9 

is  over,"  said  Mrs.  Greer.  "  It  is  not  quite  straight, 
Flower ;  if  you  come  here  and  look,  you  can  see  for 
yourself." 

"  I  suppose  he  was  a  foreigner,"  said  Miss  Sophy  ; 
"he  looked  like  one.  Didn't  you  say  that  you 
thought  he  was  a  foreigner,  Madam  Carroll?" 

"  He  came  from  Martinique,"  answered  the  Ma 
jor's  wife  ;  "  he  had  lived  there,  I  believe,  or  on  one 
of  the  neighboring  islands,  almost  all  his  life." 

"  Well,  I  call  that  foreign ;  I  call  all  the  West 
India  Islands  very  foreign,"  said  Miss  Sophy.  "  They 
don't  seem  to  me  civilized.  They  are  principally 
inhabited  by  blacks." 

"  It  was  so  sad  that  he  had  no  money,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Rendlesham.  "  We  never  dreamed  of  that,  you 
know.  Though  I  remember  now  that  his  clothes, 
when  you  came  to  really  look  at  them,  were  a  little 
— a  little  worn,  perhaps." 

"  They  were  shabby,"  said  Miss  Corinna,  not  with 
unkindness,  but  simply  as  historian. 

"  Is  it  true,  Madam  Carroll,  that  he  was  a  Baptist  ?" 
asked  Miss  Bolt,  thoughtfully  looking  at  the  mound. 

"  The  Walleys  are  Baptists,  you  know,"  answered 
the  lady  of -the  Farms.  "They  had  their  pastor 
there  several  times,  and  on  the  last  day  Mrs.  Walley 
was  sure  that  Mr. — Mr.  Dupont  was  conscious,  and 
that  he  joined  in  their  prayers,  and  assented  to  what 
was  said." 


150  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

"I  don't  believe  he  was  anything — I  mean,  any 
thing  in  particular,"  said  Mrs.  General  Hibbard, 
decisively.  "  He  hadn't  that  air." 

"  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Hibbard,  surely  we  should  be  char 
itable,"  said  little  Miss  Tappen,  who  was  waiting 
with  a  wreath  of  her  best  chrysanthemums  to  place 
upon  the  completed  mound. 

"Well,  Amelia,  can  you  say  he  had?"  said  the 
General's  widow,  in  an  argumentative  tone,  with  her 
forefinger  extended. 

"  I  suppose  he  had  neither  father  nor  mother,  nor 
any  near  relatives,  poor  fellow,  as  he  never  spoke  of 
them,"  observed  Miss  Dalley ;  "  that  is,  I  never 
heard  that  he  did.  But  perhaps  he  talked  more 
freely  to  you,  Madam  Carroll.  Did  he  ever  mention 
his  parents?" 

"  Mamma,  I  think  we  had  better  go  now,"  inter 
posed  Sara  Carroll.  "  You  are  very  tired,  I  know." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  all  the  ladies,  "  do  go,  dear  Madam 
Carroll."  "  You  have  had  so  much  to  do  lately." 
"  You  are  looking  quite  fatigued,  really."  "  Pray 
take  care  of  yourself,  for  all  our  sakes." 

Madam  Carroll  looked  at  the  mound,  which  was 
now  nearly  completed.  Then  she  made  a  little  gest 
ure  of  farewell  to  the  group,  and  turned  with  her 
daughter  towards  the  gate.  All  the  ladies  wore 
black  dresses :  it  was  the  custom  at  Far  Edgerley  to 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  151 

wear  black  at  funerals.  Madam  Carroll  not  only 
wore  a  black  dress,  but  she  had  put  a  black  ribbon 
on  her  little  straw  bonnet. 

"  Isn't  it  sweet  of  her  to  do  that  ?"  said  Miss  Dai- 
ley.  "  It  makes  it  a  sort  of  mourning,  you  know ; 
and  I  like  to  think  that  the  poor  lonely  fellow  had 
at  least  one  mourner  to  stand  beside  his  grave." 

The  path  took  the  two  ladies  past  the  study.  Its 
door  was  open ;  the  rector  saw  them,  arid  came  out. 
He  offered  his  arm  in  silence  to  Madam  Carroll. 
She  took  it.  She  was  trembling  a  little.  "I  am 
excessively  tired,"  she  said,  as  if  apologizing. 

"  Yes,  I  noticed  it  during  the  prayer." 

"  Then  you  were  there  ?"  She  spoke  mechanically, 
more  as  if  she  were  filling  the  time  that  must  pass 
before  they  could  reach  the  gate  than  as  though  she 
cared  for  reply. 

"  I  was  both  at  the  house  arid  the  grave,"  answered 
Owen.  He  did  not  look  at  Sara,  who  was  on  the 
other  side  of  Madam  Carroll.  He  could  not.  Dur 
ing  all  these  days  and  nights  of  Dupont's  last  illness, 
and  since  his  death,  he  had  been  haunted  by  the 
thought  of  the  grief  she  must  be  enduring.  And 
yet  to  have  seen  the  least  trace  of  that  grief  in  her 
face  (and  he  should  be  sure  to  see  it,  though  others 
might  not),  would  have  been  intolerable  to  him.  He 
did  not,  therefore,  once  look  at  her ;  he  was  a  man 


152  FOR   THE   MAJOR. 

of  stern  self-control  as  regarded  his  actions.  But  he 
could  not  help  his  feelings;  and  these  gave  him 
new  suffering  as  he  walked  on,  so  near  her,  yet  sepa 
rated  from  her  by  the  gulf  of  that  bitter  knowledge. 
Their  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  gate ;  he  assisted 
them  in,  bowed,  and  they  drove  away. 

Scar  and  the  Major  were  sitting  at  the  open  win 
dow  of  the  library  as  the  two  ladies  alighted  at  the 
door.  "  Mamma,  it  seems  a  very  long  time  since  you 
and  sister  Sara  went  away,"  said  the  child,  leaning  out 
to  speak  to  them.  "  Papa  and  I  have  taken  a  walk, 
and  looked  at  all  our  pictures,  and  told  all  our  stor 
ies;  and  now  we  are  sitting  here  waiting  for  you." 

"I  will  come  in  a  few  minutes,  my  pet,"  said 
Madam  Carroll. 

Sara  went  directly  to  the  library,  and  sat  down  be 
side  her  father's  chair.  He  wished  to  hear  all  about 
the  funeral  of  "  that  poor  young  man,"  and  she 
answered  his  questions  at  length,  and  told  him  every 
thing  she  could  think  of  in  connection  with  it.  The 
'Major  had  known  Dupont  but  vaguely;  he  had  seen 
him  at  the  reception,  but  the  face  had  faded  from  his 
memory,  and  he  should  not  have  known  him  had 
they  met  again.  He  was  a  musical  genius  who  had 
appeared  among  them.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
appeared ;  it  was  a  variety,  and  they  had  so  little 
variety  in  Far  Edgerley.  Good  music  was  always 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  153 

an  addition,  and  Marion  was  very  fond  of  music, 
very ;  he  was  glad  she  could  have  this  little  enjoy 
ment.  He  had  said  this  to  Marion  several  times. 
But  it  was  a  sad  end — very — to  die  alone  among 
strangers,  so  far  from  home. 

After  some  delay,  Madam  Carroll  came  in.  She 
had  taken  off  her  black  dress  and  put  on  a  bright 
little  gown  of  blue  ;  her  hair  had  been  recurled,  and 
there  was  a  lovely  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  some 
sprays  of  cream-colored  honeysuckle  in  her  blue  belt. 
As  she  came  nearer,  the  Major's  old  eyes  dwelt  upon 
her  with  childlike  pleasure  and  pride.  "You  are 
looking  very  charming  this  evening,  Madam  Carroll," 
he  said,  with  his  old-fashioned  gallantry. 

She  sat  down  beside  him.  "  Sara  has  been  telling 
me  about  the  funeral  of  that  unfortunate  young  mu 
sician,"  he  continued.  "  It  was  like  you,  Marion,  to 
show  so  much  kindness  to  the  poor  fellow,  whoever 
he  was,  and  I  am  glad  you  did  it.  Kindness  to  the 
unfortunate  and  the  stranger  has  always  been  an 
especial  characteristic  of  the  Carroll  family,  and  you 
have  merely  represented  me  in  this  matter,  done 
what  I,  of  course,  should  have  done  had  I  been  well 
— had  I  quite  recovered  from  my  illness  of  last  win 
ter,  you  know.  But  I  am  much  improved — much 
improved.  This  poor  young  man  seems  to  have  been 
utterly  alone  in  the  world,  since  even  when  he  was 


154  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

dying,  and  knew  that  he  was,  he  told  no  one,  as  I 
understand  it,  anything  of  his  parentage,  or  life,  or 
history,  and  left  no  letters  or  even  a  message  for 
friends.  It  is  really  quite  remarkable." 

"Papa,"  said  Sara,  "now  that  we  are  all  here, 
wouldn't  it  be  a  good  time  to  look  at  the  new  photo 
graphs?"  The  photographs  were  views  of  English 
scenery  which  she  had  sent  for ;  the  Major  had  been 
in  England,  and  liked  to  relate  reminiscences  of  his 
visit.  He  was  interested  at  once. 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered,  with  alacrity,  "  an  ex 
cellent  idea.  Scar,  get  the  boxes." 

Scar  brought  the  boxes,  and  gave  one  of  them  to 
his  mother;  as  he  did  so  his  hand  touched  hers. 
"  Why,  mamma,  are  you  so  cold?"  he  said,  in  sur 
prise.  "  It  is  still  summer,  mamma,  and  quite 
warm." 

"It  is  nothing,"  answered  Madam  Carroll;  "only 
a  passing  chill.  It  is  over  now." 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  155 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  funeral  of  the  musician  the 
Major  was  taken  ill.  It  was  not  the  failure  of 
strength,  which  often  came  over  him,  nor  the  con 
fused  feeling  in  the  head,  of  which  he  never  spoke, 
but  which  his  wife  always  recognized  when  she  saw 
him  sitting  with  his  forehead  bent  and  his  hand  over 
his  eyes.  This  time  he  had  fever,  and  was  slightly 
delirious;  he  seemed  also  to  be  in  pain.  Madam 
Carroll  and  Sara  did  not  leave  him;  they  were  in 
deep  anxiety.  But  in  the  evening  relief  came ;  the 
fever  ceased,  and  he  fell  into  a  quiet  sleep.  The  two 
women  kissed  him  softly,  and,  still  anxious,  stole  into 
the  next  room  to  keep  the  watch,  leaving  the  door 
open  between  the  two.  A  shaded  night-lamp  faintly 
illumined  the  room  where  he  lay,  but  the  outer  one 
was  in  darkness.  Scar  had  gone  to  bed,  and  the 
house  was  very  still ;  they  could  hear  the  murmur  of 
the  brook  through  the  open  window ;  for  although 
it  was  now  towards  the  last  of  October,  it  was  still 
summer  in  that  favored  land.  The  outer  room  was 


156  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

large,  and  they  sat  on  a  sofa  at  its  far  end ;  they 
could  talk  in  low  tones  without  danger  of  disturbing 
the  Major,  whose  sleeping  face  they  could  see  through 
the  open  door. 

The  moon  rose.  Madam  Carroll  went  into  the 
Major's  room  and  closed  the  dark  curtains,  so  that 
the  increasing  light  should  not  waken  him  ;  when 
she  came  back  the  silver  radiance  had  reached  Sara, 
and  was  illuminating  her  face  and  figure  as  she  leaned 
against  the  cushions  of  the  sofa.  "He  is  sleeping 
naturally  and  restfully  now,"  said  the  wife,  as  she 
took  her  seat  again ;  "  his  face  has  lost  that  look  of 
pain  it  has  had  all  day.  But  do  you  know  that  you 
yourself  are  looking  far  from  well,  Sara?" 

"  I  know  it.  And  I  am  ashamed  of  it.  When  I 
see  you  doing  everything,  and  bearing  everything, 
without  one  outward  sign,  without  the  least  change 
in  your  face  or  expression,  I  am  ashamed  that  I  have 
so  little  self-control." 

"  Have  you  been  supposing,  then,  that  all  this  un 
varying  pink  and  white  color  was  my  own  ?  Have 
you  never  suspected  that  I  put  it  on? — that  it  was 
fictitious?  I  began  in  July — you  know  when.  It 
was  for  that  reason  that  I  altered  the  hours  of  our 
receptions  from  afternoon  to  evening :  candle-light 
is  more  favorable,  you  .know.  I  also  began  then  to 
wear  a  little  lace  veil.  You  think  me  about  thirty- 


FOR   THE   MAJOR.  157 

five,  don't  you  ?  I  am  forty-eight.  I  was  thirty-five 
when  I  married  the  Major.  All  this  golden  hair 
would  be  heavily  streaked  with  gray  if  I  should  let 
it  alone." 

"  Do  not  feel  obliged  to  tell  me  anything,  mamma." 
"  I  prefer  that  you  should  know ;  and  it  is  also  a 
relief  to  me  to  tell,"  answered  Madam  Carroll,  her 
eyes  on  the  dark  outline  of  the  mountains,  visible  in 
the  moonlight  through  the  open  window.  "  My 
poor  little  Cecilia  passed  easily  for  six,  she  was  so 
small  and  frail,  like  Scar;  in  reality  she  was  over 
ten.  The  story  was,  you  know,  that  I  had  been 
married  the  first  time  at  sixteen.  That  part  was 
true ;  but  nineteen  years  had  passed  instead  of  seven, 
as  they  supposed.  You  are  wondering,  probably, 
why  I  should  have  deceived  your  father  in  such 
little  things,  matters  unimportant.  There  had  been 
no  plan  for  deceiving  him ;  it  had  been  begun  before 
I  met  him ;  he  simply  believed  what  the  others  be 
lieved.  And  later  I  found  that  they  were  not  unim 
portant  to  him — those  little  things;  they  were  im 
portant.  He  thought  a  great  deal  of  them.  He 
thought  a  great  deal  of  my  youth  ;  youth  and  igno 
rance  of  the  world,  child-like  inexperience,  had  made 
up  his  ideal  of  me,  and  by  the  time  I  found  it  out, 
his  love  and  goodness,  his  dear  protection,  had  be 
come  so  much  to  me  that  I  could  not  run  the  risk  of 


158  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

losing  them  by  telling  him  his  mistake.  I  know  now 
that  I  need  not  have  feared  this,  I  need  not  have 
feared  anything  where  he  was  concerned  ;  but  I  did 
not  know  then,  and  I  was  afraid.  He  saw  in  me  a 
little  blue-eyed,  golden  -  haired  girl-mother,  unac 
quainted  with  the  dark  side  of  life,  trusting,  sweet. 
It  was  this  very  youth  and  childlike  look  which  had 
attracted  him,  man  of  the  world  as  he  was  himself, 
and  no  longer  young.  I  feared  to  shatter  his  dream. 
In  addition,  that  part  did  not  seem  to  me  of  any 
especial  consequence ;  I  knew  that  I  should  be  able 
to  live  up  to  his  ideal,  to  maintain  it  not  only  fully, 
but  longer,  probably,  than  as  though  I  had  been  in 
reality  the  person  he  supposed  me  to  be ;  for  now  it 
would  be  a  purpose,  determinedly  and  carefully  car 
ried  out,  and  not  mere  chance.  I  knew  that  I  could 
look  the  same  for  years  longer ;  I  have  that  kind  of 
diminutive  prettiness  which,  with  attention,  does  not 
change ;  and  I  should  give  the  greatest  attention.  I 
felt,  too,  that  I  should  always  be  entirely  devoted  to 
him.  Gallant  and  handsome  as  he  was,  he  was  not 
young,  and  I  knew  that  I  should  care  for  him  just 
the  same  through  illness,  age,  or  infirmity ;  for  I  have 
that  kind  of  faithfulness  (many  women  haven't)  and 
— I  loved  him. 

"  And  as  to  my  little  dead  boy,  there  again  there 
had  been  no  plan  for  deceiving  him.     People  had 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  159 

supposed  from  my  young  face  that  I  could  have  been 
married  but  a  year  or  two,  and  that  Cecilia  had  been 
my  only  child.  It  was  imagined  from  my  silence 
that  my  marriage  had  not  been  a  happy  one — they 
said  I  had  that  look — and  therefore  no  one  questioned 
me;  they  took  it  all  for  granted.  I  said  that  my 
husband  was  dead.  But  I  said  no  more.  I  had  de 
cided,  for  Cecilia's  sake,  to  keep  the  secret  of  the 
manner  of  his  death :  why  should  her  innocent  life 
be  clouded  by  the  story  of  her  father?  Besides, 
could  I  go  about  proclaiming,  relating,  his — short 
comings  ?  He  was  my  husband,  though  he  had  cared 
so  little  for  me ;  he  was  rny  husband,  though  he  had 
taken  from  me  my  darling  little  son.  And  about 
that  son,  my  poor  little  drowned  boy,  I  simply  had 
never  been  able  to  speak  ;  the  hurt  was  too  deep ; 
I  could  not  have  spoken  without  telling  what  I  had 
decided  not  to  tell,  for  where  he  was  concerned  I 
could  not  have  invented.  Thus  I  had  kept  the  secret 
at  first  from  Io37alty  to  my  dead  husband,  and  for  the 
sake  of  my  little  girl ;  I  kept  it  later,  Sara,  because  I 
was  afraid.  The  Major  loved  me — yes ;  but  would 
he  continue  to  love  me  if  he  should  know  that  in 
stead  of  being  the  youthful  little  woman  barely 
twenty-three,  I  was  over  thirty-five  ?  that  instead  of 
being  inexperienced,  unacquainted  with  the  dark  side 
of  life,  I  knew  all,  had  been  through  all  ?  that  instead 


160  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

of  the  dear  little  girl's  being  my  only  child,  I  was  the 
mother  of  a  son  who,  had  he  lived,  would  have  been 
a  man  almost  full-grown — would  he  continue  to  love 
me  through  all  this  ?  I  was  afraid  he  would  not. 

"  Remember  that  /  had  not  planned  his  idea  of  me, 
I  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  he  had  made  it  him 
self.  Remember,  too,  that  such  as  it  was,  I  knew  I 
could  live  up  to  it,  that  he  need  never  be  disap 
pointed,  that  I  could  fully  realize  his  dream.  In 
that,  at  least,  I  have  succeeded.  I  have  lived  up  to 
it,  I  have  been  it,  so  long,  that  there  have  even  been 
times  when  I  have  seemed  to  myself  to  really  be  the 
pretty,  bright  little  wife,  thirty  years  younger  than 
her  husband,  that  I  was  pretending  to  be.  But  that 
feeling  can  never  come  again. 

"  I  am  not  excusing  myself  to  you,  Sara,  in  all 
this ;  I  am  only  explaining  myself.  Under  the 
same  circumstances  you  would  never  have  done  it, 
nor  under  twenty  times  the  same  circumstances. 
But  I  am  not  you ;  I  am  not  anybody  but  myself. 
That  lofty  kind  of  vision  which  sees  only  the  one 
path,  and  that  the  highest,  is  not  mine ;  I  always 
see  all  the  shorter  paths,  lower  down,  that  lead  to 
the  same  place — the  cross-cuts.  I  can  do  little  things 
well,  and  I  can  do  a  great  many  of  them  ;  I  have 
that  kind  of  small  and  ever-present  cleverness.  But 
the  great  things,  the  wide  view — they  are  beyond 


FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

me.  And  do  not  forget,  too,  how  much  it  was  to 
me.  It  was  everything.  I  was  alone  in  the  world 
with  my  delicate  little  girl,  who  needed  so  much 
that  I  could  not  give — luxuries,  constant  care,  the 
best  advice.  I  had  strained  every  nerve,  made  use 
of  all  my  poor  little  knowledge  and  my  trifling  ac 
complishments;  I  had  worked  as  hard  as  I  possibly 
could ;  and  the  result  of  all  my  efforts  was  that  I 
had  barely  succeeded  in  getting  our  bread  from  day 
to  day,  with  nothing  laid  up  for  the  future,  and  the 
end  of  my  small  strength  near  at  hand.  For  I  was 
not  fitted  for  that  kind  of  struggle,  and  I  knew  that 
I  was  not.  I  could  work  and  plan  and  accomplish, 
and  even,  I  believed,  successfully,  but  only  when 
sheltered — sheltered  in  a  home,  no  matter  how  plain, 
protected  from  actual  contact  with  the  crowd.  In  a 
crowd  there  is  always  brutality;  in  a  crowd  I  lost 
heart.  What  were  my  small  plans,  which  always 
concerned  themselves  with  the  delicate  little  things 
and  details,  in  the  great  pushing  struggle  for  bread  ? 
It  was  when  I  was  fully  realizing  the  hopelessness 
of  all  my  efforts,  when  the  future  was  at  its  black 
est,  and  I  could  not  look  at  Cecilia  without  danger 
of  tears — for  they  had  told  me  that  something  might 
be  done  for  her  during  the  next  year — for  her  poor 
spine — and  I  had  not  the  money  to  pay  for  it — it  was 
then  that  your  father's  love  came  to  me  like  a  gift 


162  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

straight  down  from  heaven.  But  do  not  think  that 
I  did  not  love  him  in  return — really  love  him  for 
himself,  not  for  what  he  gave  me.  I  did.  I  do.  I 
had  suffered  so  much,  my  life  had  been  so  crushed 
under  sorrow  and  trouble,  that,  save  my  love  for 
Cecilia,  I  seemed  to  myself  to  have  no  feelings  left ; 
I  thought  they  were  all  dead.  But  when  the  Major 
began  to  love  me,  when  he  spoke — oh,  then  I  knew 
that  they  were  not !  I  felt  that  I  had  never  known 
what  real  happiness  was  until  that  day;  and  my 
whole  heart  turned  to  him.  There  was  gratitude 
in  my  love,  I  do  not  deny  it ;  but  the  gratitude  was 
for  my  little  girl — the  love  was  all  for  him.  It  has 
never  lessened,  Sara,  from  that  hour. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  such  a  wonderful  thing  that  he 
should  love  me  !  It  gave  me  such  a  strange  surprise 
that  lie  should  care  for  my  little  doll-like  face  and 
curls.  But  when  I  found  that  he  did  care  for  them, 
how  precious  they  became  to  me,  how  hard  I  tried 
to  keep  them  pretty  for  his  sake  !  And,  for  his  sake, 
I  not  only  kept  them  pretty,  but  I  made  them  pret 
tier.  I  was  a  far  prettier  woman  after  the  Major 
married  me  than  I  was  before ;  I  had  a  motive  to 
be  so.  Ah,  yes,  I  loved  him,  Sara  !  May  you  never 
have  a  comprehension  of  the  ill-usage,  the  suffering, 
I  had  been  through !  but  still,  without  such  knowl 
edge,  you  will  hardly  be  able  to  understand  the  depth 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  163 

of  my  love  for  him.  When  he  first  saw  me,  I  was 
making  an  effort  to  seem  comparatively  cheerful ;  I 
was  spending  a  few  weeks  with  Mrs.  Upton,  the  wife 
of  an  army  officer,  at  Mayberry,  and  I  did  not  want 
her  to  suspect  my  inward  despair.  Mrs.  Upton  had 
known  me  at  Natchez  while  I  was  trying  to  keep  a 
little  school  there,  and  when  I  came  to  Mayberry  to 
try  again,  she  asked  me  to  come  and  spend  a  few 
weeks  with  her  before  I  began.  She  knew  that  I 
was  poor — she  did  not  know  how  poor — and  she  had 
always  been  fond  of  Cecilia,  who  was — surely  I  may 
say  it  now — a  very  beautiful  child.  Think  of  it  all, 
Sara ;  remember  the  needs  of  the  child ;  remember 
what  he  was  himself,  and — that  I  loved  him." 

"  I  do  think  of  it.  And  I  do  not  blame  you,"  Sara 
Carroll  answered,  speaking  not  as  the  daughter,  but 
as  one  woman  speaks  to  another.  "  You  have  made 
my  father's  life  a  very  happy  one." 

"  I  have  tried  ;  but  it  has  always  been  in  my  own 
narrow  way,  the  little  things  of  each  day  and  hour. 
It  was  the  only  way  I  knew." 

There  was  a  silence ;  the  room  had  grown  dark, 
as  a  broad  bank  of  cloud  came  slowly  over  the  moon. 

"  Cecilia  is  with  her  brother  to-night,"  said  Madam 
Carroll,  after  a  while ;  "  Cecilia  is  a  woman  now,  a 
woman  in  heaven.  She  was  twenty-two  on  the  llth 
of  September.  I  wonder  what  they  are  saying  to 

12 


164  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

each  other !  He  used  to  be  so  fond  of  her,  so  proud 
when  I  let  him  hold  her  for  a  few  minutes  in  his 
strong  little  arms!  They  will  be  sure  to  meet  and 
talk  together ;  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  How  can  we  know,  mamma?"  said  Sara,  sadly. 

"  We  cannot.  Yet  we  do,"  answered  Madam  Car 
roll.  "  I  know  it ;  I  am  sure  of  it."  She  was  silent 
for  a  moment ;  then  went  on  speaking  softly  in  the 
darkness,  as  if  half  to  herself.  "  His  poor  clothes, 
Sara — oh,  so  neglected  and  worn ! — I  could  not  bear 
it  when  I  saw  them.  I  had  asked  him  about  them 
more  than  once,  and  he  always  said  that  they  were 
in  good  order — that  is,  good  enough.  But  I  pressed 
him  ;  I  wanted  to  see  with  my  own  eyes ;  and  at 
last  I  succeeded  in  persuading  him  to  bring  a  few  of 
them  late  in  the  evening  when  no  one  would  see 
him,  and  put  them  under  the  hedge  near  the  gate ; 
then,  when  everybody  was  asleep,  I  stole  down  to 
get  them,  took  them  into  the  sitting-room,  lighted 
the  lamp,  and  looked  at  them.  In  'good  order'  he 
had  called  them,  poor  boy,  when  they  were  almost 
rags.  I  cried  over  those  clothes,  Sara  ;  I  could  not 
help  it ;  they  were  the  only  tears  I  shed.  It  showed 
so  plainly  what  his  life  had  been.  I  could  not  help 
remembering  in  what  careful  order  were  all  his  little 
frocks  and  jackets  when  he  was  my  dear  little  child. 
After  that  I  made  him  bring  me  a  few  things  once 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  165 

a  week.  I  gave  him  a  little  old  carpet-bag  of  mine 
to  put  them  in.  I  used  to  mend  them  in  my  dress 
ing-room,  with  the  door  locked,  whenever  I  had  a 
little  leisure  (I  took  only  my  leisure),  and  then  I  car 
ried  them  down  and  put  them  under  the  hedge  when 
I  knew  he  was  coining.  It  was  a  comfort  to  me  to 
do  it ;  but  he  didn't  care  anything  about  the  mend 
ing  himself — he  said  so.  He  had  lived  so  long  with 
his  poor  things  neglected  and  ragged  that  he  didn't 
know  any  other  way.  Yet  he  tried,  too,  after  his 
fashion — a  man's  fashion — to  dress  well.  Don't  you 
remember  his  red  silk  handkerchiefs  and  socks,  and 
his  silk-lined  umbrella  ?  Poor  boy,  he  had  the  wish  ; 
but  not  the  money  or  the  knowledge.  How  could 
lie  learn,  living  where  and  as  he  had  ?  That  watch- 
chain  and  ring  he  had  when  he  came  back — they 
were  only  "gilt." 

The  grieving  story  was  no  longer  uttered  aloud, 
the  low  tones  ceased.  But  the  mother  was  pursuing 
the  train  of  thought  in  her  own  mind. 

After  a  while  she  spoke  again.  "I  was  so  un 
willing  to  tell  you,  Sara,  to  burden  you  with  it  all ! 
Nothing  could  have  made  me  do  it  but  the  fear  of 
— of  that  which  afterwards  did  happen — death.  For 
when  he  came  back  after  that  illness,  and  I  saw  how 
changed  he  was,  how  weak,  and  knew  that  I  had 
nothing  to  help  him  with,  then  I  felt  desperate.  I 


FOB  THE  MAJOR. 

knew  that  he  ought  to  return  to  that  warmer  cli 
mate,  and  at  once ;  I  had  nothing  of  my  own,  and 
the  Major's  money,  of  course,  I   would  not  take. 
Yours  is  not  his,  and  so  I  came  to  you ;  I  knew  that 
you  would  help  me  to  the  utmost  of  your  power — 
as  you  have.     But  if  there  had  been  any  possible 
alternative,  anything  else  in  the  world  that  I  could 
have  done — and  I  thought  over  everything — I  want 
you  to  believe  that  I  should  never  have  come  to  you." 
"  It  was  too  much  for  you  to  bear  alone,  mamma." 
"  No,  it  was  not  that ;  I  could  have  borne  much 
more.     I  have  borne  it.     But  what  I  could  not  bear 
was  that  he  should  be  ill.     I  had  exhausted  every 
means  I  had  when  he  went  away  the  first  time; 
there  was  nothing  left.     I  had  given  all  I  had — all, 
excepting  things  which  the  Major  himself  had  given 
me.     I  had  even  stretched  a  point,  and  added  the 
watch  your  uncle  Mr.  Chase  sent  me  when  I  was 
married.     There  was  the  little  breast-pin,  also,  that 
Mrs.  Upton   gave   me   at   the   same   time.      Then 
there  was  the  gold  thimble  and  the  sleeve-buttons 
you  sent  me  from  Longfields,  and  the  gold  pencil 
Senator  Ashley  gave  me  one  Christmas.    I  even  put 
in  my  little  coral  necklace.     It  had  belonged  to  Ce 
cilia,  and  was  the  only  thing  I  had  left  from  her 
baby  days ;  it  was  of  little,  almost  no  value  intrin 
sically,  as  I  knew,  because  I  had  tried  to  sell  it  more 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  167 

than  once  when  she  and  I  were  so  poor;  but  if  it 
could  add  even  a  few  shillings  to  the  hoard — so 
small!  —  that  was  to  take  him  back  to  the  climate 
he  needed,  I  was  glad  to  have  it  go.  I  tell  you  this 
only  to  show  you  that  absolute  necessity,  and  that 
alone,  drove  me  to  you." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  came,  mamma ! — glad  that  I 
was  able  to  help  you,  or  at  least  that  you  let  me 
try." 

"Yes,  you  were  glad  to  help  me;  you  were  very 
kind  and  good,"  answered  the  Major's  wife.  Then, 
sitting  erect,  and  with  a  quicker  utterance,  "  But  you 
were  always  afraid  of  him.  You  never  trusted  him. 
You  were  always  afraid  that  he  would  be  traitorous, 
that  he  would  go  to  your  father,  /was  never  afraid  ; 
I  knew  that  he  would  never  betray ;  he  cared  too 
much  for  me,  for  his  poor  mother ;  for  although  he 
had  not  been  with  me  since  he  was  a  child,  in  his 
way  he  loved  me.  He  was  never  selfish,  he  was 
only  unthinking,  my  poor,  neglected  boy !  But  you 
never  gave  him  any  mercy ;  you  suspected  him  to 
the  last." 

"  Oh,  no,  mamma ;  I  tried — " 

"  Yes,  you  tried.  But  you  were  always  Miss  Car 
roll,  always  scornful  at  heart,  cold.  You  endured 
him;  that  was  all.  And  do  not  think  he  did  not 
see  it,  was  not  hurt  by  it !  But  I  did  not  mean  to 


168  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

reproach  you,  Sara ;  it  is  not  just.  I  will  stop  this 
minute."  She  brought  one  hand  down  into  the 
palm  of  the  other  with  a  decided  little  sound,  and 
held  them  thus  pressed  tightly  together  for  several 
minutes.  Then,  letting  them  fall  apart,  she  leaned 
her  head  back  against  the  cushions  again.  "  You 
were  thinking  of  your  father,"  she  said,  in  a  gentler 
tone ;  "  that  was  the  cause  of  all,  of  your  coldness, 
your  fear.  You  were  afraid  that  Julian  would  do 
something  to  distress  him,  to  disturb  his  peace.  But 
he  would  never  have  done  that.  You  did  not  know 
him,  Sara;  you  never  in  the  least  comprehended 
him.  But  I  must  not  keep  going  back  to  that. 
Rather  tell  me — and  speak  truthfully,  it  can  make 
no  difference  now  —  do  you  think  there  was  any 
time,  after  my  poor  boy's  first  coming,  when  we 
could  have  safely  told  the  Major  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  the  Major's  daughter,  "  there  was 
no  time.  He  could  not  have  borne  it ;  the  surprise, 
the  shock,  would  have  been  too  great." 

"  So  it  seemed  to  me.  But  I  wanted  your  opin 
ion  too.  You  see,  about  me  there  is  more  than  there 
used  to  be  in  his  mind,  or,  rather,  in  his  fancy:  he 
doesn't  distinguish.  What  were  once  surmises  he 
now  thinks  facts,  and  he  fully  believes  in  them.  He 
has  constructed  a  sort  of  history,  and  has  woven  in 
all  sorts  of  imaginary  theories  in  the  most  curious 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  169 

way.  For  instance,  he  thinks  that  my  mother  was 
one  of  a  family  well  known  in  New  York — so  they 
tell  me,  at  least ;  I  know  little  of  New  York — the 
Forsters  of  Forster's  Island.  My  mother  was  plain 
Mary  Foster,  from  Chester,  Vermont,  or  its  neigh 
borhood,  a  farmer's  daughter.  In  the  same  way  he 
has  built  up  a  belief  that  my  father  was  an  Episco 
pal  clergyman,  and  that  he  was  educated  in  England. 
My  father  was  a  Baptist  missionary ;  he  was  a  man 
of  fair  education  (he  educated  me),  but  he  was  never 
in  England  in  his  life.  These  are  only  parts  of  it, 
his  late  fancies  about  me.  To  have  brushed  them  all 
away,  to  have  told  him  that  they  were  false,  that  I 
had  all  along  been  deceiving  him,  to  have  bewildered 
him, given  him  so  much  pain — my  dear  gray-haired  old 
Major !  Oh,  Sara,  I  could  never  have  done  it !  l  A  son  ?' 
he  would  have  said,  perplexed.  i  But  there  is  only 
little  Scar.'  It  would  have  been  cruelty,  he  believes 
in  me  so !"  Her  voice  quivered,  and  she  stopped. 

"He  has  never  had  more  cause  to  believe  in  you 
than  now,  mamma — to  believe  in  your  love  for  him  ; 
he  does  not  know  it,  but  some  day  he  will.  You  have 
been  so  unswerving  in  your  determination  to  make 
secure,  first  of  all,  his  happiness  and  tranquillity,  so 
unmindful  of  your  own  pain,  that  it  seems  to  me, 
his  daughter,  as  if  you  had  never  been  so  faithful  a 
wife  to  him  as  now." 


170  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

"  Oh,  say  it  again  !"  said  Madam  Carroll,  burying 
her  face  in  her  hands.  "I  did  my  best,  or  at  least  I 
tried ;  but  I  have  been  so — tortured — harassed — " 

The  Major  stirred  in  the  next  room ;  they  hurried 
softly  in.  He  was  awake;  he  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  his  wife  as  she  stood  beside  the  bed. 
"  You  and  Sara  both  here  ?"  .he  said.  "  Did  I  go 
to  bed,  then,  very  early  this  evening  ?"  He  did  not 
wait  for  reply,  but  went  on.  "I  have  had  such  a 
beautiful  dream,  Marion  ;  it  was  about  that  drive 
we  took  when  we  were  first  married — do  you  re 
member?  Through  the  woods  near  May  berry.  There 
was  that  same  little  stream  that  we  had  to  cross  so 
many  times,  and  the  same  bank  where  you  got  out 
and  gathered  wild  violets,  and  the  same  spring  where 
we  drank,  and  that  broken  bridge  where  you  were 
so  frightened — do  you  remember?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  his  wife,  brightly ;  "  and  I  re 
member,  too,  that  you  lost  your  way,  and  pretended 
that  you  had  not,  and  wouldn't  ask,  for  fear  I  should 
suspect  it." 

The  Major  laughed,  feebly,  but  with  enjoyment. 
"I  didn't  want  you  to  know  that  /  didn't  know 
everything — even  the  country  roads,"  he  answered. 
"  For  I  was  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  and  you 
were  such  a  little  thing;  I  had  my  dignity  to  keep 
up,  you  see."  He  laughed  again.  "  That  spring  was 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  171 

very  cold,  wasn't  it  ?"  he  said,  and  he  lay  thinking 
of  it  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  slowly  his  eyes 
closed ;  he  had  fallen  asleep.  They  waited,  but  he 
did  not  waken.  His  sleep  was  peaceful,  and  they 
went  back  again  to  their  watch  in  the  outer  room. 

"  It  is  two  o'clock,  mamma.  Won't  you  lie  down 
for  a  while  ?  I  am  strong,  and  not  at  all  tired  ;  if 
he  should  waken,  I  will  at  once  call  you." 

"  I  could  not  sleep,"  answered  Madam  Carroll, 
taking  her  former  seat.  "  We  could  neither  of  us 
sleep,  I  fancy,  while  there  was  the  least  danger  of 
the  fever's  returning — as  the  doctor  said  it  might." 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  rest,  even  if  you 
did  not  sleep." 

"I  shall  never  be  any  more  rested  than  I  am 
now,"  answered  the  Major's  wife.  After  a  silence 
of  some  length  she  spoke  again  ;  "  In  all  this  we 
should  not  forget  Mr.  Owen,"  she  said,  as  though 
taking  up  a  task  which  must  be  performed.  "  I  feel 
sure  that  he  is  suffering  deeply.  You  know  what 
he  must  be  thinking  ?" 

"  So  long  as  he  does  not  speak,  what  he  thinks  is 
of  small  consequence,"  said  Miss  Carroll. 

"  It  may  be  so  to  you.  It  is  not  to  him."  She 
paused.  "  I  can  remember  that  I  once  liked  him," 
she  went  on,  in  a  monotonous  tone.  "And  I  can 
even  believe  that  I  shall  like  him  again.  But  not 


172  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

now,  not  now.  ISTow  it  is  too  near  —  those  cruel 
words  he  spoke  about  my  boy." 

"  He  did  not  know—" 

"  Of  course  he  did  not ;  and  I  try  to  be  just.  He 
was  angry,  hurt,  alarmed  ;  he  was  hurt  that  I  should 
treat  him  as  I  did — I  treated  him  horribly — and  he 
was  alarmed  about  you.  I  have  never  thanked  you 
for  what  you  did  that  day,  Sara — the  day  he  came 
to  warn  us ;  I  could  not.  For  I  knew  how  you 
loathed  it — the  expedient  you  took.  You  only  took 
it  because  there  was  no  other." 

"  You  are  very  hard  to  me,  mamma." 

"  About  your  feeling  I  am  ;  how  can  I  help  it  ? 
But  not  about  the  deed :  that  was  noble.  In  order 
to  help  me  you  let  Mr.  Owen  suppose  that  you  were 
engaged  to  a  man  he — he  utterly  despised.  Well, 
you  helped  me.  But  you  hurt  him ;  you  hurt 
Frederick  Owen  that  morning  about  as  deeply  aa 
you  could."  She  moved  to  Sara's  side  in  the  dark 
ness,  took  her  hand  with  a  quick  grasp  and  held  it 
in  both  her  own.  "  And  you  are  so  proud,"  she 
whispered  softly,  "  that  you  will  never  acknowledge 
that  you  hurt  yourself  too ;  that  the  sacrifice  you 
then  made  in  lowering  yourself  by  your  own  act  in 
his  e}Tes  was  as  great  a  one  as  a  woman  can  make ; 
for  he  loves  you  devotedly,  jealously,  and  you — you 
know  how  much  you  care  for  him." 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  173 

Without  leaving  time  for  reply,  she  moved  back 
to  her  former  place,  and  went  on  with  what  she  had 
been  saying,  as  though  that  sudden  soft  interpolated 
whisper  had  not  existed.  "  Yes — this  strange  double 
feeling  that  I  have  about  Frederick  Owen  makes  me 
even  feel  sorry  for  him  at  times,  sorry  to  have  him 
suffer  as  I  know  he  must  be  suffering,  sorry  to  have 
him  think  what  I  know  he  must  be  thinking  of  you ; 
and  also  of  me.  For  he  thinks  that  you  had  a  liking 
for  a  man  whom  he  considered  unworthy  to  speak 
your  name  (oh,  detestable  arrogance !) ;  he  thinks 
that  it  was  clandestine,  that  you  dared  not  tell  your 
father ;  and  that  I  was  protecting  you  in  it  as  well 
as  I  could ;  all  this,  of  course,  he  must  believe.  Death 
has  put  an  end  to  it,  and  now  it  will  never  be  known  ; 
this  also  he  is  thinking.  But,  meanwhile,  he  knows 
it.  And  he  cannot  forget  it.  He  thinks  you  have 
in  your  heart  the  same  feeling  still.  But  I  remem 
bered — I  did  what  I  could  for  you  by  telling  him 
that  it  was  but  a  fancy  of  the  moment,  that  it  would 
pass." 

"  Oh  !"  murmured  Sara,  with  a  quick,  involuntary 
gesture  of  repulsion  ;  then  she  stopped. 

"  I  was  trying  to  pave  a  way  out  of  it  for  you. 
You  do  not  like  the  way,  because  it  includes — in 
cludes  the  supposition  that  you —  But  one  can  never 
please  you,  Sara  Carroll !" 


174:  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

She  rose  and  began  to  walk  swiftly  to  and  fro 
across  the  room,  her  footsteps  making  no  sound  on 
the  thick,  faded,  old-fashioned  carpet — a  relic  from 
the  days  of  the  Sea  Island  Carrolls. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  she  said,  abrupt 
ly,  as  she  passed  Sara  for  the  fourth  time. 

"  If  you  are  alluding  to  Mr.  Owen,  I  don't  want 
you  to  do  anything,"  answered  Miss  Carroll. 

"  Oh,  you  are  proud  !  For  the  present  nothing 
can  be  done.  But  let  me  tell  you  one  thing  —  do 
not  be  too  repellent.  'Tis  good  in  me  to  warn  you, 
to  take  his  part,  when  I  hate  him  so — hate  him  for 
what  he  said.  Do  you  suppose  I  would  have  had 
him  reading  prayers  over  my  poor  dead  boy  after 
what  had  passed  ?  Never  in  the  world.  No  one 
who  despised  him  should  come  near  him.  So  I  had 
the  Baptist  minister.  I  was  a  Baptist  myself  when 
I  was  a  girl  —  if  I  ever  was  a  girl!  All  this  hurts 
you,  of  course ;  but  I  cannot  help  it.  Be  patient. 
Some  day  I  shall  forgive  him.  Perhaps  soon."  She 
had  paused  in  front  of  Sara  as  she  said  this,  for  they 
had  both  been  guardedly  careful  to  speak  in  the  low 
est  tones. 

The  girl  left  her  place  on  the  sofa ;  she  rose  and 
walked  beside  her  stepmother  as  she  resumed  her 
quick,  restless  journey  to  and  fro  across  the  floor. 
They  came  and  went  in  silence  for  many  minutes. 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  175 

Then  Sara  put  her  arm  round  Madam  Carroll,  and 
drew  her  towards  the  sofa  again. 

"  Rest  awhile,  mamma,"  she  said,  placing  the  cush 
ions  so  that  she  could  lie  easily ;  "  you  do  not  know 
how  very  tired  you  are."  And  Madam  Carroll  for 
a  half-hour  yielded. 

"  We  must  bear  with  each  other,  Sara,"  she  said, 
as  she  lay  with  her  eyes  closed.  "  For  amid  all  our 
other  feelings,  there  is  one  which  we  have  in  com 
mon,  our  love  for  your  father.  That  is  and  always 
must  be  a  tie  between  you  and  me." 

"  Always,"  answered  Sara. 

A  little  after  daylight  the  Major  woke.  There 
had  been  no  return  of  the  fever ;  he  had  slept  in 
peace  while  they  kept  the  vigil  near  him  ;  his  ill 
ness  was  over.  As  he  opened  his  eyes,  his  wife  came 
to  the  bedside;  she  had  just  risen — or  so  it  seemed, 
for  she  wore  a  rose -colored  wrapper,  and  on  her 
head  a  little  lace  cap  adorned  with  rose-colored  rib 
bon.  The  Major  had  not  seen  the  cap  before ;  he 
thought  it  very  pretty. 

"  Trying  to  be  old,  are  you,  Madam  Carroll  ?"  he 
said  ;  "  old  and  matronly  2" 

Sara  came  in  not  long  afterwards ;  she,  too,  was 
freshly  dressed  in  a  white  wrapper. 

"  I  have  brought  you  your  breakfast,  papa,"  she 


176  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

"  Isn't  it  earlier  than  usual  ?"  asked  the  Major, 
turning  his  dim  eyes  towards  the  window.  But  he 
could  not  see  the  light  of  the  sunrise  on  the  peaks. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Major,  that  you  are  growing  indo 
lent,"  said  Madam  Carroll,  with  pretended  severity, 
as  she  poured  out  his  tea. 

"  Indolent  ?"  said  the  Major—"  indolent  ?  Indo 
lence  is  nothing  to  vanity.  And  you  and  Sara,  in 
your  pink  and  white  gowns,  are  living  images  of 
vanity  this  morning,  Madam  Carroll." 


AM   AFRAID,  MAJOR,  THAT   YOU   ARE   GROWING   INDOLENT. 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  177 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ACTUMN  at  last  came  over  the  mountains ;  she 
decked  them  in  her  most  sumptuous  colors,  and 
passed  slowly  on  towards  the  south.  The  winds  fol 
lowed  the  goddess,  eight  of  them  ;  they  came  sound 
ing  their  long  trumpets  through  the  defiles ;  they 
held  carnival  in  the  high  green  valleys  ;  they  at 
tacked  the  forests  and  routed  the  lighter  foliage, 
but  could  not  do  much  against  the  stiff,  dark  ranks 
of  the  firs.  They  careered  over  all  the  peaks ;  some 
times  they  joined  hands  on  Chillawassee's  head,  and 
whirled  round  in  a  great  circle,  laughing  loudly,  for 
half  a  day ;  and  then  the  little  people  who  lived  on 
the  ground  said  to  each  other  that  it  "  blew  from  all 
round  the  sky." 

They  came  to  Far  Edgerley  more  than  once ;  they 
blew  through  Edgerley  Street ;  at  night  the  villagers 
in  their  beds  heard  the  long  trumpets  through  the 
near  gorges,  and  felt  their  houses  shake.  But  they 
were  accustomed  to  these  autumn  visitors ;  they  had 
a  theory,  too,  that  this  great  sweeping  of  their  peaks 

13 


178  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

and  sky  was  excellent  for  their  mountain  air.  And 
upon  the  subject  of  their  air  there  was  much  con 
ceit  in  Far  Edgerley. 

When  at  length  the  winds  had  betaken  themselves 
to  the  lowlands,  with  the  intention  of  blowing  across 
the  levels  of  Georgia  and  Florida,  and  coming  round 
to  surprise  the  northerners  at  Indian  River  and  St. 
Augustine,  the  quiet  winter  opened  in  the  mountains 
they  had  left  behind  them.  The  Major  had  had  no 
return  of  his  October  illness ;  he  came  to  church  on 
Sundays  as  usual,  and  appeared  at  his  wife's  recep 
tions.  It  was  noticed,  although  no  one  spoke  of  it, 
that  he  did  not  hold  himself  quite  so  erect  as  for 
merly,  and  that  perhaps  his  eyesight  was  not  quite 
so  good;  but  he  still  remained  to  his  village  the 
exemplar  of  all  that  was  noble  and  distinguished, 
and  they  admired  him  and  talked  about  him  as  much 
as  ever.  He  was  their  legend,  their  escutcheon  ;  so 
long  as  they  had  him  they  felt  distinguished  them 
selves. 

The  winter  amusements  began  about  Christmas 
time.  They  consisted  principally  of  the  Sewing 
Society  and  the  Musical  Afternoons.  To  these  en 
tertainments  "  the  gentlemen  "  came  in  the  evening 
— F.  Kenneway,  Mr.  Phipps,  the  junior  warden,  and 
the  rector,  when  they  could  get  him.  A  Whist  Club 
had,  indeed,  been  proposed.  There  was  a  double 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  179 

motive  in  this  proposal.  There  were  persons  in  the 
congregation  who  considered  whist-playing  a  test  of 
the  best  churchraanship ;  these  were  secretly  desir 
ous  to  see  the  test  applied  to  the  new  rector,  or 
rather  the  new  rector  applied  to  it.  But  the  thought 
ful  Mrs.  Greer,  having  foreseen  this  very  possibility 
at  an  earl}7  date  in  the  summer,  had  herself  sounded 
the  rector  upon  the  subject,  arid  brought  back  a 
negative  upon  the  end  of  her  delicate  conversational 
line.  She  had  asked  him  if  he  thought  that  the 
sociability  engendered  by  card-tables  at  small  parties 
could,  in  his  opinion,  counterbalance  the  danger 
which  familiarity  with  the  pasteboard  squares  might 
bring  to  their  young  men  (Phipps  and  Kenneway); 
and  whether  he  himself,  at  moments  of  leisure,  and 
when  he  wished  to  rest  from  intellectual  fatigue,  of 
which,  of  course,  he  must  have  so  much,  ever  whiled 
away  the  time  with  these  same  gilded  symbols,  not 
with  others,  but  by  himself. 

Owen,  who  had  not  for  the  moment  paid  that 
attention  to  the  eloquence  of  Mrs.  Greer  which  he 
should  have  done,  did  not  understand  her.  He  had 
received  an  impression  of  cymbals.  This  was  no 
surprise  to  him  ;  he  had  found  Mrs.  Greer  capable 
of  the  widest  range  of  subjects. 

"  I  mean  the  painted  emblems,  you  know— cards," 
explained  Mrs.  Greer ;  "  clubs,  diamonds,  and  spades, 


180  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

Mr.  Owen.  ISTor  should  we  leave  out  hearts.  I  was 
referring,  when  I  spoke,  to  solitaire.  But  there  is 
also  whist.  Whist  is,  in  its  way,  a  climate  by  itself 
— a  climate  of  geniality." 

This  was  a  phrase  of  Madam  Carroll's.  Mrs. 
Greer  had  collected  a  large  assortment  of  phrases 
from  the  overflow  of  the  Farms.  These  she  treasured, 
and  dealt  out  one  by  one ;  her  conversation  was  rich 
ly  adorned  with  them.  She  had  excellent  oppor 
tunities  for  collecting,  as  Madam  Carroll  had  long 
been  in  the  habit  of  telling  her  any  little  item  which 
she  wished  to  have  put  in  circulation  through  the 
village  in  a  certain  guise.  She  always  knew  that  her 
exact  phrase  would  be  repeated,  but  not  as  hers ;  it 
would  be  repeated  as  if  it  were  original  with  the 
lady  who  spoke  it.  This  was  precisely  what  Madam 
Carroll  intended.  To  have  said  herself,  for  instance, 
that  the  new  chintz  curtains  of  her  drawing-room 
combined  delicacy  and  durability,  and  a  bower-like 
brightness,  was  too  apparent ;  but  for  Mrs.  Greer  to 
say  it  (in  every  house  on  Edgerley  Street)  was  per 
fectly  proper,  and  accomplished  the  same  result.  The 
whole  town  remarked  upon  the  delicacy  and  the  dura 
bility  and  the  bower-like  brightness ;  and  the  cur 
tains,  which  she  had  made  and  put  up  herself  at  small 
expense,  took  their  place  among  the  many  other  pe 
culiarly  admirable  things  possessed  by  the  Farms. 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  181 

Upon  the  present  occasion,  however,  Mrs.  Greer  gave 
Madam  Carroll's  name  to  the  phrase  she  had  repeated ; 
she  thought  it  would  have  more  influence.  "  Yes, 
that  is  what  our  dear  Madam  Carroll  used  to  call  it 
— a  climate  of  geniality,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  rec 
tor  with  an  inquiring  smile. 

But,  ignoring  the  phrase  of  the  Farms,  none  the 
less  did  Owen  bring  out  his  negative;  with  the 
gilded  symbols  he  did  not  amuse  himself,  either 
alone  or  in  company. 

Armed,  therefore,  with  this  knowledge,  Mrs.  Greer 
was  ready ;  she  met  the  project  of  the  Whist  Club 
in  its  bud,  and  vanquished  it  with  a  Literary  Society, 
whose  first  four  meetings  she  gave  herself,  with  a 
delicate  little  hot  supper  thrown  in.  The  Whist 
Club  could  not  stand  against  this,  Miss  Honoria  Ash 
ley,  who  was  its  chief  supporter,  offering  only  apples 
and  conversation.  But  a  large  cold  apple  on  a  win 
ter  night  is  not  calculated  to  rouse  enthusiasm; 
while,  as  to  conversation,  everybody  knew  that  hot 
coffee  promoted  it.  So  the  Literary  Society  con 
quered,  and  the  whist  test  was  not,  for  that  season  at 
least,  applied  to  the  churchmanship  of  the  rector. 

During  these  winter  months  Owen  kept  himself 
constantly  busy.  It  was  thought  that  he  worked  too 
hard.  He  looked  tired ;  sometimes,  young  and  strong 
as  he  was,  he  looked  worn.  There  was  a  good  deal 


182  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

of  motherly  anxiety  about  this;  some  sisterly,  too. 
Ferdinand  Kenneway  said  that  he  felt  towards  him 
like  a  brother.  But  Owen  pursued  his  own  course, 
unmindful  of  these  sympathetic  feelings.  He  came 
to  Madam  Carroll's  receptions  as  usual,  but  did  not 
stay  long :  he  was  the  last  to  come  and  the  first  to  go. 
He  called  at  the  Farms,  though  not  often  ;  and  when 
he  went  there,  he  did  not  go  alone. 

So  the  winter  passed  on  and  departed,  and  spring 
came.  Then  a  sorrow  fell  upon  the  little  mountain 
town.  Early  one  soft  morning  in  March,  when  the 
cinnamon-colored  tassels  were  out  on  the  trees,  and 
the  air  was  warm  and  gray,  with  the  smell  of  rain  in 
it,  word  came  down  Edgerley  Street,  passing  from 
house  to  house,  that  Carroll  Farms  had  been  visited 
in  the  night :  the  Major,  their  Major,  had  wakened 
quiet  and  content,  but  like  a  little  child ;  the  powers 
of  his  mind  had  been  taken  from  him. 

Every  one  had  loved  him,  and  now  there  was  real 
mourning.  They  all  said  to  each  other  and  to  them 
selves  that  they  should  never  look  upon  his  like 
again.  The  poor  nation  had  greatly  retrograded 
since  his  day ;  even  their  state  was  not  what  it  had 
been  ;  under  these  circumstances  it  could  not  be  ex 
pected  that  the  world  should  soon  produce  another 
Scarborough  Carroll.  They  went  over  all  the  his 
tory  of  his  life :  his  generous  sharing  of  his  fortune 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  183 

with  his  half-brother;  his  silence  under  the  forget- 
f  ulness  of  that  half-brother's  children ;  his  high  posi 
tion  and  many  friends  in  the  old  army ;  his  brilliant 
record  in  the  later  army,  their  own  army,  vanquished, 
but  still  dear  to  them,  the  army  of  the  South ;  they 
told  again  the  story  of  his  gallant  ride  round  the 
enemy's  forces  in  the  Valley,  of  his  charge  up  the 
hill  at  Fredericksburg,  his  last  brave  defence  of  the 
bridge  on  the  way  to  Appomattox.  His  wounds 
were  recalled,  his  shattered  arm,  the  loss  of  his 
money,  so  uncomplainingly  borne  ;  they  spoke  of  his 
beautiful  courtesy  to  every  one,  and  of  his  unfailing 
kindness  to  all  the  poor.  And  then,  how  handsome 
he  was,  how  noble  in  bearing  and  expression,  how 
polished  in  manner!  such  a  devoted  husband  and 
father,  so  pure  a  patriot !  Their  dear  old  Major : 
they  could  not  say  enough. 

The  junior  warden  kept  his  room  all  day;  he  could 
not  bear  to  hear  it  talked  about.  Then  the  next 
morning  out  he  went  at  an  early  hour  to  see  every 
body  he  knew,  and  he  told  them  all  how  very  impru 
dent  Carroll  had  always  been,  recklessly  so,  reckless 
ly.  He  was  up  and  down  Edgerley  Street  all  day, 
swinging  his  cane  more  than  usual  as  he  walked, 
thus  giving  a  light  and  juvenile  air  to  his  arms  and 
shoulders,  which  was  perhaps  somewhat  contradicted 
by  the  uncertain  tread  of  his  little  old  feet.  In  the 


184  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

afternoon  Frederick  Owen  went  to  the  Farms ;  for 
the  first  time  since  the  preceding  October  he  went 
alone.  Miss  Carroll  was  in  the  drawing-room  when 
he  came  in  ;  she  was  receiving  a  visit  of  general  in 
quiry  and  condolence  from  the  three  Miss  Kendle- 
shams.  They  went  away  after  a  while,  and  then, 
before  he  had  had  time  to  speak — as  he  stood  there 
realizing  that  he  had  not  been  alone  with  her  since 
that  day,  now  six  months  in  the  past,  when  she  had 
told  him  of  her  engagement  to  Dupont — he  saw 
through  the  open  door  of  the  drawing-room  the  small 
figure  of  Madam  Carroll.  She  had  not  come  down 
to  see  the  three  Miss  Rendleshams.  But  she  did 
come  down  to  see  the  rector.  She  came  straight  to 
him,  with  her  quick,  light  step.  "  I  heard  that  you 
were  here,  and  came  down.  I  am  anxious  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Owen.  Not  to-day,  but  soon.  I  thought  I 
would  come  down  myself  and  ask  you ;  I  did  not 
want  to  write  a  note." 

"At  any  time  you  will  name,"  answered  Owen. 
He  had  risen  as  she  entered.  Miss  Carroll  had 
seemed  to  him  unchanged,  save  that  her  eyes  showed 
that  she  had  been  crying;  but  the  Major's  wife,  he 
said  to  himself,  with  almost  awe-struck  astonish 
ment — the  Major's  wife,  had  he  met  her  elsewhere, 
he  should  hardly  have  known.  Her  veil  of  golden 
hair,  no  longer  curled,  was  put  plainly  back,  and 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  185 

fastened  in  a  close  knot  behind ;  her  eyes,  the  blue 
eyes  he  had  always  thought  so  pretty,  looked  tired 
and  sunken  and  dim,  with  crows'-feet  at  their  cor 
ners  ;  all  her  lovely  bloom  was  gone,  and  the  whole 
of  her  little  faded  face  was  a  net-work  of  minute 
wrinkles.  She  was  still  small  and  slender,  and  she 
still  had  her  pretty  features ;  but  this  was  an  old 
woman  who  was  talking  to  him,  and  Madam  Carroll 
had  been  so  young. 

"It  will  not  be  for  some  days  yet,  I  think,"  she 
was  saying.  "  I  shall  wait  until  the  doctor  has  made 
up  his  mind.  He  wants  more  time,  though  I  want 
none ;  when  he  does  make  it  up,  it  will  be  as  mine 
is  now.  But  I  prefer  to  wait  until  he  sees  clearly ; 
Will  you  ask  him  from  day  to  day  what  he  thinks, 
and,  when  he  has  decided,  then  will  you  come  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Owen.  "But  do  you  mean  that 
the  Major — " 

"  I  mean  that  the  Major  is  in  no  immediate  dan 
ger  ;  that  he  will  continue  about  the  same.  He  will 
not  grow  better,  but  neither  will  he  grow  much 
worse.  He  may  be  brighter  at  times,  but  he  will 
not  regain  his  memory  ;  that  is  gone.  But  we  shall 
not  lose  him,  Mr.  Owen,  that  is  our  great  happiness. 
We  shall  not  lose  him,  Sara  and  I,  as  we  had  at  first 
feared." 

Two  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  as  she  spoke. 


186  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

"  It  is  because  I  am  so  thankful,"  she  said,  wiping 
them  away.  Her  long  lace -bordered  sleeves  had 
been  turned  back,  and  Owen  was  struck  with  the 
old,  withered  look  of  her  small  wrists  and  hands. 

"  I  could  not  have  borne  it  to  lose  him  now,"  she 
went  on,  as  if  explaining.  "You  may  think  that 
existence  such  as  his  will  be  is  no  blessing,  nothing 
to  be  desired  for  him  or  for  me.  But  he  is  not 
suffering,  he  is  even  happy  as  a  child  is  happy,  and 
he  knows  me.  He  would  be  content  himself  to  wait 
a  little,  if  he  could  know  how  much  it  was  to  me, 
how  much  to  have  him  with  me,  so  that  I  can  devote 
myself  to  him,  devote  myself  entirely." 

"You  have  always  done  that,  Madam  Carroll," 
said  Owen,  touched  by  her  emotion. 

"  You  will  come,  then — on  whatever  day  the  doc 
tor  makes  up  his  mind,"  she  said,  controlling  herself, 
and  returning  to  her  subject. 

Here  Miss  Carroll  spoke.  "Isn't  it  better  not  to 
make  engagements  for  the  present,  mamma?"  she 
said,  warningly.  "  You  will  overtax  your  strength." 

"  It  is  overtaxed  at  this  moment  far  less  than  it 
has  been  for  many  a  long  month,"  answered  Madam 
Carroll,  as  it  seemed  to  Owen,  strangely.  She  passed 
her  hand  over  her  forehead,  and  then,  as  if  putting 
herself  aside  in  order  to  consider  her  companions  for 
a  moment,  she  looked  first  at  Sara,  then  turned  and 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  187 

looked  at  Owen.  "  Do  not  stay  any  longer  now," 
she  said  to  him,  gently,  in  an  advising  tone.  He 
obeyed  her,  and  went  away. 

On  the  tenth  day  after  this  the  doctor,  whose  con 
clusions,  if  slowly  made,  were  sure,  announced  his 
decision  :  it  tallied  exactly  with  that  of  Madam  Car 
roll.  The  Major  was  in  no  present  danger;  his 
physical  health  was  fairly  good  ;  his  condition  would 
not  change  much,  and  he  might  linger  on  in  this 
state  for  several  years.  And  then  the  Far  Edgerley 
people,  knowing  that  no  more  pain  would  come  to 
him,  and  that  he  was  tranquil  and  even  happy,  that 
he  recognized  his  wife,  and  that  she  gave  to  him  the 
most  beautiful  and  tender  devotion — then  these  Far 
Edgerley  people  were  glad  and  thankful  to  have  him 
with  them  still ;  not  wholly  gone,  though  lying  un 
seen  in  his  peaceful  room,  which  faced  the  west,  so 
that  the  sunset  could  shine  every  day  upon  the  quiet 
sunset  of  his  life.  And  they  thought,  some  of  them, 
that  thanksgiving  prayers  should  be  offered  for  this 
in  the  church.  And  they  all  prayed  for  him  at 
home,  each  family  in  its  own  way. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  when  the  doctor  had 
made  up  his  mind,  Frederick  Owen  went  to  the 
Farms,  Madam  Carroll  came  down  to  see  him ;  she 
took  him  to  the  library,  now  unused,  and  when  they 
had  entered,  she  closed  the  door.  "  Will  you  sit  here 


188  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

beside  me  ?"  she  said,  indicating  a  sofa  opposite  the 
window.  Again  he  was  struck  by  the  great — as  it 
seemed  to  him,  the  marvellous — change  in  her.  She 
looked  even  older  than  before ;  her  hair  was  put 
back  in  the  same  plain  way ;  there  was  the  same 
absence  of  color,  the  same  tired  look  in  her  eyes,  the 
same  fine  net-work  of  wrinkles  over  all  her  small 
face;  but  added  to  these  there  was  now  a  settled 
sadness  of  expression  which  he  felt  wrould  never  pass 
away.  He  missed,  too,  all  the  changing  inflections 
and  gestures,  the  pretty  little  manner  arid  attitudes, 
and  even  the  pronunciation,  which  he  had  supposed 
to  belong  inseparably  to  her,  which  he  had  thought 
entirely  her  own.  He  missed  likewise,  though  un 
consciously,  the  prettiness  of  the  bright  little  gowns 
she  had  always  worn ;  she  was  dressed  now  in  black, 
without  color  or  ornament. 

She  seemed  to  divine  his  thoughts.  "  The  Major 
can  no  longer  see  me,"  she  said,  quietly ;  "  that  is, 
with  any  distinctness.  It  is  no  longer  anything  to 
him — what  I  wear." 

He  had  taken  the  seat  she  had  offered ;  she  sat 
beside  him,  with  her  hands  folded,  her  eyes  on  the 
opposite  wall.  "  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  can  make  no  prefaces ;  I  cannot  speak  of 
feelings.  I  hope  for  your  interest,  Mr.  Owen,  even 
for  your  sympathy ;  but  if  I  get  them  it  will  be  ac- 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  189 

complished  by  a  narrative  of  facts  alone,  and  not  by 
any  pathos  in  the  words  themselves.  I  got  beyond 
pathos  long  ago.  My  name  was  Marion  More.  My 
father  was  a  missionary  in  the  Southwest — the  exact 
localities  I  need  not  give.  At  sixteen  I  married. 
My  father  died  within  the  year;  my  mother  had 
died  long  before.  My  first  child  was  a  son,  born 
when  I  was  seventeen ;  I  called  him  Julian.  Later 
there  came  to  me  a  daughter,  my  little  Cecilia. 
When  she  was  still  a  baby,  and  Julian  was  seven, 
my  husband,  in  a  brawl  at  a  town  some  miles  from 
our  house,  killed  a  man  who  was  well  known  and 
liked  in  the  neighborhood  ;  they  had  both  fired,  and 
the  other  man  was  the  better  shot,  but  upon  this 
occasion  his  ball  happened  to  miss,  and  my  hus 
band's  did  not.  I  was  sitting  at  home,  sewing ;  the 
baby  was  in  the  cradle  at  my  feet,  and  Julian  was 
playing  with  his  little  top  on  the  floor.  My  hus 
band  rode  rapidly  into  the  yard  on  his  fast  black 
horse,  Tom,  sprang  down,  came  into  the  house,  and 
went  into  the  inner  room.  He  soon  came  back  and 
went  out.  He  called  Julian.  The  child  ran  into 
the  yard ;  then  hurried  back  to  get  the  little  over 
coat  I  had  made  for  him.  'Where  are  you  going?' 
I  said.  '  To  ride  with  papa,'  he  answered,  and,  eager 
as  he  was  to  go,  he  did  not  forget  to  come  and  kiss  me 
good-by.  Then  he  ran  out,  and  I  heard  them  start ; 


190  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

I  heard  Tom's  hoofs  on  the  hard  road  farther  and 
farther  away ;  then  all  was  still.  But  less  than  half 
an  hour  afterwards  there  was  noise  enough  ;  the  gar 
den  was  full  of  armed  men.  The  whole  country-side 
were  out  after  him.  They  hunted  him  for  three 
days.  But  he  knew  the  woods  and  swamps  better 
than  they  did,  and  they  could  not  find  him.  They 
knew  that  he  would  in  time  make  for  the  river,  and 
they  kept  a  watch  along  shore.  He  reached  it  on 
the  fourth  day,  at  a  lonely  point ;  he  turned  Tom 
loose,  took  a  skiff  which  he  knew  was  there,  and 
started  out  with  my  little  boy  upon  the  swollen  tide 
— for  the  river  was  high.  They  were  soon  discov 
ered  by  the  watch  on  shore.  Shots  were  fired  at 
them.  But  the  skiff  was  out  in  the  centre  of  the 
stream,  which  was  very  wide  just  there,  and  the 
shots  missed.  They  followed  the  skiff  along  shore. 
They  knew  what  he  did  not  —  that  the  river  nar 
rowed  below  the  bend,  and  that  there  were  rapids 
there.  He  reached  the  bend,  and  saw  that  he  was 
lost ;  the  current  carried  the  boat  down  towards  the 
narrows ;  and  they  began  to  shoot  again ;  one  shot 
struck  Julian.  Then  his  father  took  him  in  his 
arms  and  jumped  overboard  with  him.  That,  they 
knew,  was  death.  They  saw  the  dark  bodies  whirled 
round  and  round,  and  amused  themselves  by  shoot 
ing  at  them  once  or  twice;  they  saw  them  sucked 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  191 

under.  Then,  farther  away,  they  saw  them  again 
swept  along  like  logs,  inert,  dead ;  on  and  on ;  two 
black  dots ;  out  of  sight.  Then  they  rode  back,  that 
hunting  party ;  and  their  wives  came  and  told  me, 
as  mercifully  as  they  could,  that  my  husband  and 
my  little  boy  were  drowned.  I  could  not  bury  my 
dead ;  on  the  rapid  current  of  the  river  they  were 
already  miles  away ;  in  that  country  no  one  cared 
for  the  dead.  They  cared  but  little  for  the  living. 
I  took  my  baby  and  went  away ;  I  left  that  horrible 
land.  I  came  eastward.  I  had  no  money,  or  very 
little ;  my  husband  had  taken  what — what  he  needed 
for  his  flight,  and  there  was  nothing  left.  I  tried  to 
teach  little  day  schools  for  children.  I  gave  music 
lessons.  I  did  my  best.  But  I  was  not  strong ;  my 
little  girl,  too,  was  very  delicate :  there  was  some 
thing  the  matter  with  her  spine.  When  this  life  of 
ours — hers  and  mine — had  lasted  ten  years  (for  I  am 
much  older  than  you  have  supposed),  I  met  Major 
Carroll.  He  was  so  good  as  to  love  me ;  he  was  so 
good  as  to  marry  me;  he  took  as  his  own  my  poor 
little  girl,  and  gave  her  all  the  comforts  and  luxuries 
she  needed — things  I  could  not  give.  She  died  soon 
afterwards,  in  spite  of  all.  But  in  our  new  home 
she  had  had  happy  days,  and  when  the  end  came 
she  did  not  suffer:  she  went  back  to  God  in  sleep. 
On  the  6th  of  last  July  I  was  in  the  garden  here, 


192  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

gathering  some  roses ;  it  was  below  the  slope  of  the 
knoll,  out  of  sight  from  the  house.  The  gate  opened, 
and  a  young  man  came  in.  He  came  across  to  me. 
He  introduced  himself  as  a  stranger  in  Far  Edger- 
ley,  who  had  admired  our  flowers.  He  spoke  sev 
eral  sentences  while  I  stood  looking  at  him.  I  was 
frightened  ;  I  knew  not  why.  At  last,  recovering 
myself,  I  turned  to  walk  towards  the  house.  Then 
it  was  that  he  put  his  hand  on  my  arm,  and  said : 
'Don't  you  know  me,  mother?  I  am  Julian,  the 
little  boy  you  thought  dead.'  He  was  thirty -one 
years  old,  and  I  had  lost  him  before  he  was  eight. 
What  had  startled  me  was  his  likeness  to  his  father. 
They  had  escaped,  after  all.  His  father  had  feigned 
death ;  he  had  let  himself  be  swept  along,  keeping 
hold  of  the  child,  who  was  unconscious.  It  was  a 
desperate  expedient.  But  he  was  desperate.  He 
was  an  expert  swimmer,  and  he  succeeded,  though 
barely,  with  life  just  fluttering  within  them.  They 
lay  hid  in  a  canebrake  for  some  days,  and  then,  after 
much  difficulty,  they  made  their  way  out  of  the 
country.  They  went  to  Mexico.  Then  they  went 
to  the  West  India  Islands.  They  lived  in  Marti 
nique,  and  they  took  the  name  of  Dupont.  My  hus 
band  did  not  try  to  come  back ;  a  reward  had  been 
offered  for  him  before  he  fled ;  there  was  a  price  on 
his  head.  He  knew  that  I  supposed  him  dead,  and 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  193 

he  was  quite  willing  to  be  dead — to  me.  He  was 
tired  of  me.  I  was  only  a  burden  to  him.  I  was  al 
ways  talking  about  little  things.  My  son  thought  that 
we  were  dead — his  little  sister  and  I ;  his  father  had 
told  him  so.  But  after  his  father's  death  he  found 
among  his  papers  some  memoranda  which  made  him 
think  that  perhaps  we  were  not,  that  perhaps  he 
could  even  find  us.  He  did  not  try  immediately; 
it  was  but  a  chance,  and  he  was  interested  in  other 
things.  But  later  he  did  try ;  that  is,  in  his  way ; 
he  was  never  sharp  and  energetic — as  you  are.  He 
found  me ;  but  his  little  sister  had  gone  to  heaven. 
My  son  had  had  only  the  education  of  the  islands, 
and  he  was,  besides,  a  musician.  The  temperament 
of  musicians  is  peculiar.  You  will  allow  me  to  say 
that  I  think  you  do  not  understand  it.  He  wished 
to  go  back  to  the  islands ;  he  had  been  in  the  United 
States  for  a  year,  and  he  did  not  like  the  life  or  cli 
mate.  I  helped  him  as  much  as  I  could.  It  was 
not  much ;  but  he  started.  Then  he  had  that  ill 
ness  in  New  York,  and  came  back.  It  was  most 
important  that  he  should  start  again,  and  soon — be 
fore  the  return  of  winter.  I  had  nothing  to  give 
him,  and  so  I  went  to  my  daughter — I  mean  my  step 
daughter,  Sara.  She  has,  you  know,  a  small  income  of 
her  own,  left  her  by  her  uncle.  You  are  asking  your 
self  why  I  did  not  go  to  the  Major ;  why  there  should 

14 


194:  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

have  been  any  secret  about  it  from  the  first.  It  was 
because  I  had  not  told  him  at  the  time  of  our  marriage, 
or  at  any  time,  that  I  had  ever  had  a  son.  He  thought 
when  he  married  me  that  Cecilia  was  my  only  child  ; 
he  thought  me  twenty-three,  when  I  was  in  reality 
over  thirty-five.  It  would  have  been  a  great  shock 
and  pain  to  him  to  know  that  I  had  deceived  him — 
a  shock  which,  in  his  state  of  health  at  that  time, 
he  could  not  have  borne.  When  Sara  knew,  she 
helped  me;  she  helped  me  nobly.  But  the  time 
for  the  semi-annual  payment  of  her  income  was  not 
until  the  12th  of  October,  and  by  the  terms  of  her 
uncle's  will  she  could  not  anticipate  it;  we  were 
therefore  obliged  to  wait.  Before  the  12th  of  Octo 
ber  my  son  was  taken  ill,  as  I  had  feared.  And  the 
rest — you  know.  The  time  when  I  could  tell  you 
this  has  now  come.  It  has  come  because  nothing 
can  again  disturb  the  Major's  peace.  He  is  near  us 
in  touch,  and  close  to  our  love,  but  earth's  sorrows 
and  pains  can  trouble  him  no  more.  I  can  therefore 
tell  you,  and  I  do  it  for  two  reasons.  One  is  that  it 
will  explain  to  you  the  course  we  took;  it  will  ex 
plain  to  you  what  Sara  said  that  afternoon,  for  I 
think  that  it  has  grieved  you — what  Sara  said.  It 
was  an  expedient  that  she  thought  of  to  divert  your 
attention,  to  stop  further  action  on  your  part.  ~YVe 
knew  —  from  your  having  tried  to  see  the  Major, 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  195 

and  see  him  alone  —  that  you  had  learned  some 
thing  ;  how  much,  we  could  not  tell.  And  when 
you  came  again  the  next  day,  and  spoke  as  you  did, 
first  to  me,  and  then  to  her,  and  I  was  frightened 
and  lost  my  courage,  fearing  lest  you  should  speak 
to  others  also ;  then  Sara  took  the  only  expedient 
she  could  think  of  to  silence  you,  to  stop  you  ef 
fectually,  and  thus  secure  her  father's  peace.  But 
it  was  only  an  expedient,  Mr.  Owen.  It  was  never 
true."  She  paused  for  the  first  time  in  the  utter 
ance  of  her  brief  sentences,  turned  her  head,  and 
looked  at  him  with  her  faded,  tired  eyes. 

Owen's  own  eyes  were  wet.  "  Even  before  that," 
he  said,  "and  I  do  not  deny  how  important  it  is 
to  me — more  important  than  anything  else  in  the 
-world — even  before  that,  Madam  Carroll,  I  beg  you 
to  say  that  you  forgive  me,  that  you  forgive  what  I 
did  and  said.  I  did  not  know — how  could  I? — and 
I  was  greatly  troubled." 

"  I  think  I  can  say  that  I  have  forgiven  you,"  an 
swered  Madam  Carroll.  "  I  did  not  at  first ;  I  did 
not  for  a  long  time.  It  is  all  over  now;  and  of 
course  you  did  not  know.  But  you  never  under 
stood  my  son — you  could  not ;  and  therefore — if  you 
will  be  so  good — I  should  prefer  that  you  should  not 
speak  to  me  of  him  again ;  it  is  much  the  easiest 
way  for  us  both."  She  turned  her  eyes  back  to  the 


196  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

wall.  "  About  Sara,"  she  continued,  without  pause, 
"  it  was  a  pity.  It  has  been  a  long  time  for  you  to 
wait — with  that — that  mistaken  belief  on  your  mind. 
But,  while  the  Major  was  still  with  us  in  his  con 
sciousness  and  his  memory,  I  could  not  tell  to  you, 
a  stranger,  what  I  was  not  able  to  tell  him." 

"  You  were  afraid  to  trust  me !"  said  Owen,  a 
pained  expression  coming  into  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Madam  Carroll,  simply. 

"  You  did  not  know  then  that  I  felt  as  far  as  pos 
sible  from  being  a  stranger  ?  That  I  wished — that  I 
have  tried — " 

"  That  is  later ;  I  was  coming  to  that.  Yes — since 
I  have  known  that  you  cared  so  much  for  her  (though 
I  knew  it  long  ago !) — since  you  have  spoken,  rather, 
I  have  felt  that  I  wished  to  tell  you,  that  I  would 
gladly  tell  you,  as  soon  as  I  could.  The  time  has 
come,  and  it  came  earlier  than  I  expected,  though  I 
knew  it  could  not  be  long  delayed.  I  have  taken 
the  earliest  hour." 

"  Then  she — then  Miss  Carroll  told  you  that  I — 
that  I  had  spoken  ?"  said  Owen. 

"She  told  me  because  I  asked  her,  pressed  her. 
I  knew  that  you  had  been  here — a  week  ago,  wasn't 
it  ? — I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  face  as  you  left 
the  house.  And  so  I  asked  her.  She  is  very  reti 
cent,  very  proud ;  she  would  never  have  told  me,  in 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  197 

spite  of  my  asking,  if  her  wish  to  show  me  that  I 
had  been  mistaken  in  something  I  had  said  to  her 
long  before  had  not  been  stronger  even  than  her 
reserve." 

"  What  was  it  that  you  were  mistaken  in  ?"  said 
Owen,  quickly. 

"  I  was  not  mistaken.  But  she  wished  to  prove 
to  me  that  I  was.  I  had  told  her  in  October  that 
she  cared  for  you,  and  that  she  had  made  the  great 
est  sacrifice  a  woman  could  make  in  voluntarily  low 
ering  herself  in  your  eyes  by  allowing  you  to  sup 
pose — to  suppose  what  you  did." 

"  You  were  mistaken,  after  all,  Madam  Carroll," 
said  Owen,  sadly.  "  She  cares  nothing  for  me." 

"  Men  are  dull,"  answered  the  mistress  of  the  Farms, 
wearily.  "  They  have  to  have  everything  explained 
to  them.  Don't  you  see  that  it  was  inevitable  that 
she  should  refuse  you  ?  As  things  stood — as  you  let 
them  stand — she  could  not  stoop  to  any  other  course. 
She  knew  that  you  believed  that  she  had  cared  for — 
for  Louis  Dupont"  (Madam  Carroll's  face  had  here 
a  strange,  set  sternness,  but  her  soft  voice  went  on 
unchanged),  "  and  she  knew  your  opinion  of  him. 
She  knew,  moreover,  that  you  believed  it  clandestine, 
that  she  had  not  dared  to  tell  her  father.  For  you 
to  come,  then,  at  this  late  day,  believing  all  this,  and 
tell  her  that  you  loved  her — that  seemed  to  her  an 


198  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

insult.  Your  tone  was,  I  presume  (if  not  your  words), 
that  you  loved  her  in  spite  of  all." 

"  Yes,"  Owen  answered.  "  For  that  was  my  feel 
ing.  I  did  love  her  in  spite  of  all.  I  had  fought 
against  it.  I  had  thought  —  I  don't  know  what. 
But  it  was  over ;  whatever  it  had  been  it  was  ended 
forever,  and  my  love  had  conquered.  I  knew  that 
very  well !" 

"  And  you  told  her  so,  I  suppose — {  I  love  you  in 
spite  of  all'  —  when  you  should  have  said  <I  love 
you ;  and  it  never  existed.' " 

"  But  had  she  not  told  me  with  her  own  lips  that 
it  did  exist,  that  she  was  engaged  to  him  ?" 

"  You  should  not  have  believed  her  own  lips ;  you 
should  have  risen  above  that.  You  should  have  told 
her  to  her  face  that  you  did  not  believe,  and  never 
would  believe,  anything  that  was,  or  even  seemed  to 
be,  against  her.  I  see  you  know  very  little  about 
women.  You  will  have  to  learn.  I  am  taking  all 
this  pains  for  you  because  I  want  her  to  be  happy. 
Her  nature  is  a  very  noble  one,  in  spite  of  an  over 
weight  of  pride.  She  could  not  explain  to  you,  even 
at  that  time,  without  betraying  me,  and  that  she 
would  never  do.  But  I  doubt  whether  she  would 
have  explained  in  any  case;  it  would  have  been  do 
ing  too  much  for  you." 

"  All  she  did  was  done  for  her  father,"  said  Owen  ; 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  199 

"and  it  was  the  same  with  yon,  Madam  Carroll. 
Seldom  has  man  been  so  loved.  My  place  with  her 
will  be  but  a  second  one." 

"  That  should  content  you." 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  like  me,  though  you  try  to  help 
me,"  cried  the  young  man.  "But  give  me  time, 
Madam  Carroll ;  give  me  time." 

"  To  make  me  like  you  ?  Take  as  much  as  you 
please.  But  do  not  take  it  with  Sara." 

"  I  shall  take  five  minutes,"  Owen  answered.  Then 
he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "Forgive  me  for 
thinking  of  my  own  happiness,"  he  said,  with  the 
gentlest  respect." 

"  I  like  you  to  think  of  it ;  it  gives  me  pleasure. 
And  now  I  must  come  to  my  second  reason  for  tell 
ing  you.  You  remember  I  said  that  there  were  two. 
This  is  something  which  even  Sara  does  not  know — 
I  would  not  give  her  any  of  that  burden ;  she  could 
not  help  me,  and  she  had  enough  to  bear.  She  could 
not  help  me;  but  now  you  can.  It  is  something  I 
want  you  to  do  for  me.  It  could  not  be  done  be 
fore,  it  could  not  be  done  until  the  Major  became  as 
he  is  at  present.  No  one  now  living  knows;  still, 
as  you  are  to  be  one  of  us,  I  should  like  to  have  you 
do  it  for  me." 

And  then  she  told  him. 


200  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ON  Easter  Sunday  morning  Far  Edgerlej  people 
woke  to  find  their  village  robed  in  blossoms ;  in  one 
night  the  fruit  trees  had  burst  into  bloom,  so  that 
all  the  knolls  and  Edgerlej  Street  itself  stood  in 
bridal  array,  and  walking  to  church  was  like  taking 
part  in  a  beautiful  procession. 

Nearly  a  month  had  passed  since  the  Major's  at 
tack  ;  but  all  his  old  friends  in  the  congregation  of 
St.  John's  missed  him  more  than  ever  on  this  Easter 
morning.  Sara  and  Scar  were  in  the  Carroll  pew  at 
the  head  of  the  aisle ;  but  it  looked  very  empty,  nev 
ertheless.  During  this  month  there  had  not  been 
much  change  in  the  Major,  save  that  for  two  weeks 
after  the  doctor's  decision  he  had  not  been  so  well ; 
restlessness  had  troubled  him.  But  for  the  preced 
ing  few  days  he  had  been  much  better,  and  every 
one  was  cheered  by  this;  every  one  was  interested 
in  hearing  that  he  had  talked  quite  at  length  with 
his  wife  on  simple  local  subjects,  that  he  enjoyed 
little  things,  and  thought  about  them.  He  lived  en- 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  201 

tirely  in  the  present,  the  present  of  the  passing  mo 
ment  ;  everything  in  the  past  he  had  forgotten,  and 
he  speedily  forgot  the  moment  itself  as  soon  as  it 
was  gone.  What  his  wife  said  to  him  he  understood, 
and  he  always  knew  when  she  was  near,  though  his 
blind  eyes  could  not  see  her;  he  felt  for  a  fold  of 
her  dress  or  the  ruffle  of  her  sleeve,  and  held  it;  the 
sense  of  touch  had  taken  the  place  of  the  vanished 
sight.  He  listened  for  Scar's  voice  too,  and  seemed 
to  like  to  have  him  in  the  room,  to  hold  the  child's 
hand  in  his.  In  the  same  way  he  always  smiled  and 
was  pleased  when  Sara  spoke  to  him. 

When  the  morning  service  was  over,  every  one 
waited  to  ask  how  the  Major  was  on  this  lovely 
Easter  Sunday.  Lately  they  had  come  to  like  his 
daughter  far  better  than  they  had  liked  her  at  first ; 
they  said  she  talked  more,  that  she  was  not  so  cold. 
Certainly  there  was  nothing  cold  in  her  face,  but  a 
beautiful  sweetness,  as  she  rose  from  her  knees  and, 
taking  Scar's  hand,  turned  to  go  down  the  aisle.  She 
answered  their  questions  on  the  steps  and  in  the 
church-yard.  For  on  Easter  morning  Far  Edgerley 
people  always  brought  many  flowers  to  church ; 
then,  after  service,  they  took  them  out  and  laid  them 
upon  all  the  graves,  so  that,  as  Scar  once  said,  "  they 
could  have  their  Easter  Sunday  too."  Every  mound 
had  its  blossoms  to-day,  and  there  were  many  upon 


202  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

the  grave  of  the  young  stranger,  Louis  Dupont ;  this 
was  because  there  was  no  one,  they  said,  to  remem 
ber  him.  So  they  all  remembered  him. 

A  little  before  sunset  Frederick  Owen,  having 
officiated  at  the  Easter  service  of  the  Sunday-school 
and  at  one  of  his  mission  stations,  was  on  his  way 
to  Carroll  Farms.  As  he  came  up  Carroll  Lane  and 
crossed  the  little  bridge  over  the  brook,  he  saw  that 
there  was  more  bloom  here  than  anywhere  else  in 
all  the  blooming  town.  For  the  whole  orchard  was 
out  behind  the  house,  and  all  the  flowering  almonds 
in  front  of  it;  the  old  stone  walls  rose  close  pressed 
in  blossoms.  Sara  opened  the  door  before  he  had 
time  to  knock.  "  I  was  watching  for  you,"  she  said. 
"Judith  Inches  and  Caleb  have  gone  up  the  moun 
tain  to  see  their  mother,  as  they  always  do  on  Easter 
afternoon,  and  they  have  taken  Scar." 

Owen  paused  in  the  hall  to  greet  her;  he  was 
very  proud  of  this  proud,  reserved  girl  whose  love 
he  had  won. 

"Do  not  wait,  Frederick.  Mamma  has  such  a 
pleadingly  sorrowful  look  to-day  that  I  want  to  have 
it  over." 

"  Only  a  moment,"  said  Owen.  He  was  standing 
with  his  arm  round  her,  holding  her  close.  "Do 
you  remember  that  afternoon  when  I  spoke  to  you 
of  your  mother,  of  the  sisterly  kindness  she  had 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  203 

shown  to  that  poor  woman  who  had  lost  her  crip 
pled  boy?  And  do  you  remember  that  you  said 
that  no  one  save  those  who  were  in  the  house  with 
her  all  the  time  could  comprehend  the  one  hundredth 
part  of  her  tenderness,  her  constant  thought  for  oth 
ers  ?  Your  answer  put  me  in  a  glow  of  pleasure,  I 
did  not  then  comprehend  why.  I  asked  myself  as 
I  walked  home  if  I  cared  so  much  to  hear  Madam 
Carroll  praised.  I  know  now  what  I  cared  for — it 
was  because  you  had  said  it.  For  I  had  been  afraid, 
unconsciously  to  myself,  perhaps,  that  you  did  not 
fully  appreciate  her,  appreciate  her  as  she  seemed  to 
me." 

"  And  I  had  not  until  then.  I  shall  always  re 
proach  myself — " 

"  You  need  not ;  you  have  made  up  for  it  a  hun 
dredfold,"  answered  Owen.  Then,  coming  back  to 
himself,  with  love's  unfailing  egotism — "  I  wonder  if 
you  realize  all  the  suffering  I  went  through  ?"  he 
continued.  "  You  made  me  wait  in  my  pain  so  long, 
so  long!" 

"  We  suffer  more  than  you  do,  always,"  answered, 
after  a  moment,  the  woman  he  held  in  his  arms. 
And  then  into  her  beautiful  eyes,  raised  to  meet  his, 
there  came  such  a  world  of  feeling,  some  of  it  be 
yond  his  ken,  that  touched,  stirred,  feeling  himself 
unworthy,  yet  exultant  in  his  happiness,  the  man 


204  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

who  loved  her  rested  his  lips  on  hers  without  at 
tempting  further  reply. 

A  moment  later  he  went  up  the  stairs,  and  Sara 
turned  the  key  of  the  front  door.  The  Major,  his 
wife  and  daughter,  and  the  clergyman  were  now 
alone  in  the  flower -encircled  house.  All  its  win 
dows  were  open,  and  the  flowers  fairly  seemed  to  be 
coining  in,  so  near  were  they  to  the  casements ;  out 
side  the  Major's  windows  two  great  apple-trees,  a 
mass  of  bloom,  stretched  out  their  long,  flowering 
arms  until  they  touched  the  sills. 

The  sun,  now  low  down,  was  sinking  towards  Lone 
ly  mountain ;  he  sent  horizontal  rays  full  into  the 
mass  of  apple-blossoms,  but  could  not  penetrate  them 
save  as  a  faintly  pink  radiance,  which  fell  upon  the 
figure  of  Madam  Carroll  as  she  stood  beside  the  bed. 
She  wore  one  of  her  white  dresses,  but  her  face  looked 
worn  and  old  as  the  radiance  brought  out  all  its  lines, 
and  showed  the  many  silver  threads  in  her  faded 
hair.  The  Major  was  sitting  up  in  bed ;  he  had  on  a 
new  dressing-gown,  and  was  propped  with  cushions. 

"Has  the  clergyman  come?"  he  said.  He  spoke 
indistinctly,  but  his  wife  could  always  understand 
him. 

"Yes,  he  is  here,  Scarborough,"  she  answered, 
bending  over  him. 

"  He  is  welcome.     Let  him  be  seated,"  said  the 


FOR  THE  MAJOR.  205 

Major,  in  his  old  ceremonial  manner.  Then  he  felt 
for  his  wife's  arm,  and  pulled  her  sleeve.  "  Am  I 
dressed  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously.  "  Did  you  see  to  it  ? 
Is  my  hair  smooth  ?"  He  supposed  himself  to  be 
speaking  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  Major,  you  have  on  your  new  dressing- 
gown,  and  it  is  of  a  beautiful  color,  and  your  hair 
is  quite  smooth." 

"  I  don't  feel  sure  about  the  hair,"  said  the  Major, 
still,  as  he  supposed,  confidentially.  "I  don't  re 
member  that  I  brushed  it." 

Madam  Carroll  took  a  brush  from  the  table  and 
gently  smoothed  the  thin  white  locks. 

"  That  is  better,"  he  murmured.  "  And  my  clean 
white  silk  handkerchief  ?" 

"  It  is  by  your  side,  close  to  your  hand." 

He  thought  for  a  moment.  "I  ought  to  have  a 
flower  for  my  button-hole,  oughtn't  I?"  he  added, 
looking  about  the  room  with  his  darkened  eyes  as 
if  to  find  one. 

Sara  went  to  the  window  and  broke  off  a  spray 
of  apple-blossoms  from  the  tree  outside.  His  wife 
gave  it  to  him,  and  he  tried  to  put  it  into  the  button 
hole  of  his  dressing-gown ;  she  did  it  for  him,  and 
then  he  was  content.  "I  am  ready  now,"  he  said, 
folding  his  hands. 

Frederick  Owen  came  forward  ;  he  wore  his  white 


206  FOR  THE   MAJOR. 

robes  of  office.  "Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered 
together  here  in  the  sight  of  God  to  join  together 
this  man  and  this  woman  in  holy  matrimony,"  he 
read,  standing  close  to  the  Major,  so  that  he  could 
hear. 

The  Major  listened  with  serenity ;  and  of  his  own 
accord,  when  the  time  came,  he  answered,  "  I  will." 

When  the  longer  answer  was  reached,  Owen  re 
peated  it  first,  then  Madam  Carroll  repeated  it  to 
the  Major,  as  he  could  hear  her  voice  more  easily. 
"  I,  Scarborough,  take  thee,  Marion,  to  my  wedded 
wife,  to  have  and  to  hold  from  this  day  forward,  for 
better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness 
and  in  health,  to  love  and  to  cherish,  till  death  us  do 
part,  according  to  God's  holy  ordinance ;  and  there 
to  I  plight  thee  my  troth,"  said  the  Major,  in  his 
indistinct  tones,  following  her  word  by  word,  and 
holding  the  hand  she  had  placed  in  his. 

Then  the  wife  drew  off  her  own  wedding-ring, 
and  guided  his  feeble  fingers  to  put  it  back  in  its 
place  again.  "  With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,"  said  the 
Major,  repeating  after  her  in  a  voice  that  was  grow 
ing  tired. 

"  Let  us  pray,"  said  Owen.  They  knelt,  and  the 
Major  bowed  his  head,  and  put  his  hand  over  his 
eyes.  "Our  Father,,  who  art  in  heaven,"  prayed 
Owen, "  hallowed  be  thy  name." 


FOR  THE   MAJOR.  207 

As  he  came  to  the  benediction,  the  sun's  last  rays, 
sent  from  the  golden  line  of  Lonely  Mountain,  shot 
triumphantly  under  the  apple-blossoms  and  entered 
the  room ;  they  shone  on  Madam  Carroll's  kneeling 
figure,  and  lighted  up  the  old  Major's  silver  hair — 
"  that  in  the  world  to  come,  ye  may  have  life  ever 
lasting.  Amen." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  the  Major  took  down 
his  hand  and  tried  to  look  from  one  to  the  other  as 
they  stood  round  his  bed.  His  wife  kissed  him. 
And  then  Sara,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  came  and  kissed 
him  also. 

"  Where  is  the  clergyman  ?"  said  the  Major  to  his 
wife,  again  supposing  himself  to  be  speaking  apart. 
"  I  ought  to  shake  hands  with  him,  you  know." 

Owen  came  forward,  and  the  Major  bowed  and 
put  out  his  hand.  Then  he  seemed  to  be  forgetting 
all  that  had  occurred.  "  I  am  very  tired,  Marion," 
he  said,  not  complainingly,  but  as  if  surprised.  "  I 
don't  know  what  is  the  reason,  but  I  am  very  tired." 
They  took  out  the  cushions,  and  he  put  his  head 
down  upon  the  pillow.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was 
asleep. 

At  late  twilight  Scar  carne  back  in  the  wagon 
with  Judith  Inches  and  Caleb.  His  mother  was 
waiting  for  him  on  the  piazza ;  she  took  him  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  him  several  times.  "  Why,  mamma, 


208  FOR  THE  MAJOR. 

you  are  crying !"  said  the  boy,  surprised.  "  Are  you 
sorry  about  anything,  mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  Scar.    But  it  is  over  now.    Come  up-stairs." 

The  Major  was  awake;  he  looked  very  tranquil. 
Sara  was  sitting  beside  him.  Scar  went  up  to  the 
bedside.  "  It  is  Scar,"  said  Madam  Carroll.  "  Don't 
you  remember  him,  Major  ?  Little  Scar  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Major.  "  Of  course  I  re 
member  him  ;  a  little  child." 

She  took  his  hand  and  put  it  on  the  boy's  head. 
The  Major  stroked  the  fair  hair  gently.  "Little 
Scar,"  he  murmured  softly  to  himself.  "Yes,  cer 
tainly  I  remember;  little  Scar." 


THE    END. 


A.  N  N  E 


BY    CONSTANCE    FENIMORE    WOOLSON. 

ILLUSTRATED    BY    R  E  I  N  H  A  R  T. 

16mo,  Cloth,  $1.25. 


EXTRACTS  FltOM  NOTICES   OF  "ANXE." 

It  proves  the  author's  right  to  stand  without  question  at  the  head 
of  American  women  novelists. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  appearance  of  "Anne"  may  be  regarded  as  a  fact  worth  special 
notice,  for  Miss  Woolson  adds  to  her  observation  of  scenes  and  local 
ities  an  unusual  insight  into  the  human  heart.  Sometimes  one  is 
ready  to  say  that  a  fragment,  and  not  an  inferior  fragment,  of  the  man 
tle  of  George  Eliot  is  resting  on  her  capable  shoulders.  —  Century,  N.  Y. 

The  scenery  is  fine,  the  characterization  excellent,  and  the  purpose 
true.  *  *  *  It  has  fine  touches.  *  *  *  It  has  admirable  sketches  from  nat 
ure.  *  *  *  The  book  has  humor,  also,  and  plenty  of  it.  *  *  *  Anne  is  full 
of  power,  and  will  not  soon  be  forgotten. — Literary  World,  Boston. 

A  very  vigorous  story.  *  *  *  Anne  is  very  well  drawn,  and  is  an 
attractive  study. — Zion's  Herald,  Boston. 

A  rich  contribution  to  American  fiction. —  Christian  Intelligencer,  N.Y. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  combinations  of  feminine  delicacy 
and  acuteness  with  masculine  strength  and  breadth  furnished  by  a  lady 
novelist  since  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  was  given  to  the  public.  *  *  *  Of 
the  heroine  we  can  only  say  she  is  wholly  admirable — a  perfect  woman. 
The  plot  is  unique,  of  increasing  interest,  presenting  many  varied  and 
novel  scenes,  and  alternating  artistically  between  the  lighter  and  deep 
er  emotions.  The  author  exerts  her  dramatic  powers  to  the  utmost 
toward  the  close,  and  the  result  is  something  rarely  paralleled  in 
modern  fiction. — Pittsburgh  Christian  Advocate. 

Its  wealth  of  plot,  its  rare  bits  of  humor,  its  well-marked  character- 
i/.ation,  and  its  many  fine  pieces  of  description  of  natural  scenery. — 
ISan  Francisco  Chronicle. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  NOTICES  OF 

Its  characters  are  marvels.  The}7  are  not  portraits  nor  statues,  but 
living  persons  among  and  of  us.  Anne  is  a  type,  first  of  girlhood, 
then  womanhood,  of  wondrous  beauty — an  imperishable  flower  of  that 
wild,  almost  uncivilized,  rugged  region  whence  alone  she  could  have 
sprung. — Cleveland  Leader. 

A  strong,  fresh,  vigorous  story,  American  in  scene,  people,  and 
tone.  *  *  *  Few  novels  contain  more  striking  incidents. — Louisville 
Courier-Journal. 

One  of  the  cleverest  of  recent  American  novels. — N.  Y.  World. 

The  publication  of  a  book  like  Miss  Woolson's  "Anne"  is  really 
a  literary  event.  *  *  *  The  plot  is  carefully  studied,  and  is  worked  out 
with  an  honest  patience  and  a  conscientious  faithfulness  in  details 
which  merit  the  name  of  genius. — Dial,  Chicago. 

Clearly  a  work  of  genius. — Boston  Traveller. 

A  book  which  has  excited  more  interest  and  expectation  during  its 
appearance  in  serial  form  than  any  American  novel  published  for 
years.  *  *  *  "Anne"  is  a  work  of  real  power;  its  characters  are 
painted  with  a  master  hand ;  its  literary  style  calls  for  the  warmest 
praise ;  and  the  story  has  pre-eminently  that  sympathetic  quality 
which  is  the  chief  charm  of  what  may  be  called  the  novel  of  domestic 
life. — Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

"Anne"  has  produced  a  very  marked  impression — more  so,  indeed, 
than  any  other  recent  work  of  fiction.  *  *  *  It  certainly  is  a  delightful 
and  refreshing  novel. — Albany  Evening  Journal. 

A  dettghtful  novel  of  American  life. — Portland  Transcript. 

A  charming  domestic  story,  interesting  in  plot  and  incident,  and 
fresh  in  the  telling. — St.  Louis  Republican. 

It  is  one  of  the  strongest  and  most  perfectly  finished  American 
novels  ever  written. — New  England  Farmer,  Boston. 

To  take  up  this  volume  is  to  hold  it  until  every  page  has  been  read. 
The  interest  is  kept  up  without  intermission  from  beginning  to  end, 
for  new  complications  and  developments  arise  so  constantly  that  the 
reader  is  kept  on  the  qui  vive. — Pittsburgh  Telegraph. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YOKK. 

-  Sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt 
of  the  price. 


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Mount  Royal 4to,  Paper  15 

Publicans  and  Sinners 50 

Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  Illustrated 50 

Taken  at  the  Flood 50 

The  Cloven  Foot  4 to,  Paper  15 

The  Lovels  of  Arden.  Illustrated 50 

To  the  Bitter  End.  Illustrated 50 

Vixen 4to,  Paper  15 

Weavers  and  Weft 25 

BRONTE'S  (Charlotte)  Jane  Eyre 40 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  00 

4 to,  Paper  15 

Shirley 50 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  00 

The  Professor.  Illustrated 12mo  1  00 

Villette 50 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  00 

(Anna)  The  Tenant  of  Wild  fell  Hall.  Illustrated 12mo  1  00 

(Emily)  Wuthering  Heights.  Illustrated 12mo  1  00 

CRAIK'S  (Miss  G.  M.)  Dorcas 4to,  Paper  15 

Mildred 30 

Anne  Warwick 25 

Fortune's  Marriage 4to,  Paper  20 

Hard  to  Bear 3fl 

Sydney 4to,  Paper  Iff 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


CRAIK'S  (Miss  G.  M.)  Sylvia's  Che 
Two  Women  . 

ice  i 

I'RIOE 

&     30 
15 
40 
60 
60 
15 
25 
60 
20 
60 
50 
60 
30 
35 
60 
1  25 

00 
60 
50 
00 
1  00 
50 
00 
50 
20 

1  00 
1  50 
75 
1  25 

1  00 

4t,o   Pnnfir 

COLLINS'S  Antonina  

Armadale      Illustrated 

Man  and  Wife.      Illustr 
My  Lady's  Money. 

Ued    

4to,  Paper 
32mo  Panpr 

No  Name.     Illustrated  

Percy  and  the  Prophet                                          39mn  Pnnpr 

Poor  Miss  Finch.     Illust 
The  Law  and  the  Lady. 
The  Moonstone.     Illustrz 
The  New  Magdalen  

rated 
Illus 
ited 

trated 

The  Two  Destinies.     Illu 
The  Woman  in  White. 
COLLINS'S  Illustrated  Librai 
After  Dark,  and  Other  i 
Basil.—  Hide-and-Seek 
lanies.  —  No  Name.  —  P 
—  The  Law  and  the  L 
Magdalen.—  The  Queei 
—  The  Woman  in  Whi 
DICKENS'S  NOVELS.     Illus 
A  Tale  of  Two  Cities... 
Cloth 

strat 
Illusl 
7  Ed 
3torie 
.—  * 
oor  \ 
ady.- 

1  Of  ] 

te. 
tratet 
50 
00 
00 
50 
00 
50 
00 
50 
00 
50 
00 
50 
00 
50 
00 
50 
00 
50 

>d. 

rated  

ition     ..              12mo  per  vol 

s.  —  Antonina.  —  Armadale.  — 
[an  and  Wife.  —  My  Miscel- 
iss  Finch.—  The  Dead  Secret. 
-The  Moonstone.—  The  New 
hearts.—  The  Two  Destinies. 

1. 
Nicholas  Nickleby 

Cloth 
Oliver  Twist 

Cloth 
Bleak  House 

Cloth 
Our  Mutual  Friend  

Cloth 
Christmas  Stories 

Cloth 

Cloth 
David  Copperfield 

Cloth 
4  to,  Paper 
Pictures  from  Italy,  Sketch 
es  by  Boz,  and  American 
Notes  

Cloth 
Dombey  and  Son  

Cloth 
Great  Expectations  
Cloth 
Little  Dorrit      

Cloth 
The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  
Cloth 
The  Uncommercial  Traveller, 
Hard   Times,  and   Edwin 
Drood  .  .  . 

Cloth 
Martin  Chuzzlewit  
Cloth 

Cloth  1  50 

Harper's  Household  Dickens,  16  vols.,  Cloth,  in  box,  $22  00. 
The  same  in  8  vols.,. Cloth,  $20  00 ;  Imitation  Half  Mo 
rocco,  $22  00 :  Half  Calf,  $40  00. 

DE  MILLE'S  Cord  and  Creese.     Illustrated 60 

The  American  Baron.     Illustrated 50 

The  Cryptogram.     Illustrated 75 


Harper  &  Brothers1  Popular  Novels. 


PKIOB 

DE  MILLE'S  The  Dodge  Club.     Illustrated $  60 

Cloth  1   10 

The  Living  Link.     Illustrated 60 

Cloth  1   10 

DISRAELI'S  (Earl  of  Beaconsfield)  Endymion 4to,  Paper  1 5 

The  Young  Duke 12mo  1  50 

4to,  Paper  15 
ELIOT'S  (George)  Novels : 

Adam  Bede.     Illustrated 12mo  1  25 

Amos  Barton 32mo,  Paper  20 

Brother  Jacob. — The  Lifted  Veil 32mo,  Paper  20 

Daniel  Deronda 50 

2  vols.,  12mo  2  50 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical 50 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

Janet's  Repentance 32mo,Paper  20 

Middlemarch 75 

Cloth  1  25 

2  vols.,  12mo  2  50 

Mr.  GilfiTs  Love  Story 32mo,  Paper  20 

Romola.     Illustrated 50 

12mo  1  25 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 50 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  and  Silas  Marner.    1vol.   Ill'd.    12mo  1  25 

Silas  Marner 12mo  75 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss 50 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

GASKELL'S  (Mrs.)  A  Dark  Night's  Work 25 

Cousin  Phillis 20 

Cranford 16mo  1  25 

Mary  Barton 40 

Moorland  Cottage 18mo  75 

My  Lady  Ludlow 20 

North  and  South 40 

Right  at  Last,  &c 12mo  1  50 

Sylvia's  Lovers 40 

Wives  and  Daughters.     Illustrated "  60 

GOLDSMITH'S  Vicar  of  Wakefield 18mo,  Cloth  50 

32mo,  Paper  25 

HAY'S  (M.  C.)  A  Dark  Inheritance 32mo,  Paper  15 

A  Shadow  on  the  Threshold 32mo,  Paper  20 

Among  the  Ruins,  and  Other  Stones 4to,  Paper  15 

At  the  Seaside,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Paper  15 

Back  to  the  Old  Home 32mo,  Paper  20 

Bid  Me  Discourse 4to,  Paper  10 

Dorothy's  Venture 4to)l  Paper  15 

For  Her  Dear  Sake 4to,  Paper  15 

Hidden  Perils...,  25 


6  Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 

PRICE 

HAY'S  (M.  C.)  Into  the  Shade,  and  Other  Stories. .  .4to,  Paper  $  15 

Lady  Carmichael's  Will 32mo,  Paper  15 

Missing 32mo,  Paper  20 

My  First  Offer,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Paper  15 

Nora's  Love  Test 25 

Old  Myddelton's  Money 25 

Reaping  the  Whirlwind 32mo,  Paper  20 

The  Arundel  Motto 25 

The  Sorrow  of  a  Secret 32mo,  Paper  15 

The  Squire's  Legacy 25 

Under  Life's  Key,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Paper  1 5 

Victor  and  Vanquished 25 

HELEN  Troy 16mo,  Cloth  1  00 

HUGO'S  Ninety-Three.     Illustrated 25 

12nio  1  75 

The  Toilers  of  the  Sea 50 

Illustrated.     Cloth   1  50 

JAMES'S  (Henry,  Jun.)  Daisy  Miller 32mo,  Paper  20 

An  International  Episode 32mo,  Paper  20 

Diary  of  a  Man  of  Fifty,  and  A  Bundle  of  Letters 

32mo,  Paper  25 

The  four  above-mentioned  works  in.  one  volume  Ato,  Paper  25 

Washington  Square.     Illustrated 16mo,  Cloth  1  25 

LAWRENCE'S  Anteros 40 

Brakespeare 40 

Breaking  a  Butterfly 35 

Guy  Livingstone 12mo  1  50 

4to,  Paper  10 

Hagarene 35 

Maurice  Dering 25 

Sans  Merci 35 

Sword  and  Gown 20 

LEVER'S  A  Day's  Ride 40 

Barrington 40 

Gerald  Fitzgerald 40 

Lord  Kilgobbin.     Illustrated 50 

Luttrell  of  Arran 60 

Maurice  Tiernay 50 

One  of  Them 50 

Roland  Cashel.     Illustrated 75 

Sir  Brook  Fosbrooke -.  50 

Sir  Jasper  Carew 50 

That  Boy  of  Norcott's.     Illustrated 25 

The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly 50 

The  Daltons 75 

The  Dodd  Family  Abroad 60 

The  Fortunes  of  Glencore 50 

The  Martins  of  Cro'  Martin 6« 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


PRICE 

LEVER'S  Tony  Butler $     60 

MCCARTHY'S  Comet  of  a  Season 4to,  Paper       20 

Donna  Quixote 4to,  Paper       15 

My  Enemy's  Daughter.     Illustrated 50 

The  Commander's  Statue 32mo,  Paper       15 

The  Waterdale  Neighbors 35 

MACDONALD'S  Alec  Forbes 50 

Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood 12mo  1  25 

Guild  Court 40 

Warlock  o'  Glenwarlock 4to,  Paper       20 

Weighed  and  Wanting 4to,  Paper       20 

MULOCK'S  (Miss)  A  Brave  Lady.     Illustrated 60 

12mo  1  25 
A  French  Country  Family.    Translated.    Illustrated...  12mo  1  50 

Agatha's  Husband 35 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

A  Hero,  &c 12mo  1  25 

A  Life  for  a  Life _ 40 

12mo  1  25 

A  Noble  Life 12mo  1  25 

Avillion,  and  Other  Tales 60 

Christian's  Mistake : 12rno  1  25 

Hannah.     Illustrated 35 

12mo  1  25 

Head  of  the  Family 50 

Illustrated.      12mo  1  25 

His  Little  Mother 12mo  1  25 

4to,  Paper       10 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman 50 

Illustrated.      12mo  1   25 
4 to,  Paper       15 

Mistress  and  Maid 30 

12mo  1  25 

Motherless.     Translated.     Illustrated 12mo  1  50 

My  Mother  and  I.     Illustrated 40 

12mo  1  25 

Nothing  New 30 

Ogilvies 35 

Illustrated.     12mo  1   25 

Olive - 35 

Illustrated.      12mo  1  25 

The  Laurel  Bush.     Illustrated 25 

12mo  1  25 

The  Woman's  Kingdom.     Illustrated 60 

12mo  1  25 

Two  Marriages 12mo  1  25 

Unkind  Word,  and  Other  Stories 12mo  1  25 

Young  Mrs.  Jardine 12mo  1  25 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


MULOCK'S  (Miss)  Young  Mrs.  Jardine 4to,  Paper  $  10 

NORRIS'S  Heaps  of  Money 15 

OLIPHANT'S  (Mrs.)  Agnes 50 

A  Son  of  the  Soil 50 

Athelings 50 

Brownlows 50 

Carita 50 

Chronicles  of  Carlingford 60 

Days  of  My  Life 12rao  1  50 

For  Love  and  Life 50 

Harry  Joscelyn 4to,  Paper  20 

He  That  Will  Not  when  He  May 4to,  Paper  15 

Innocent.     Illustrated 50 

It  was  a  Lover  and  His  Lass 4to,  Paper  20 

John:  a  Love  Story 25 

Katie  Stewart 20 

Lady  Jane 4to,  Paper  10 

Lucy  Crofton 12rao  1  50 

Madonna  Mary 50 

Miss  Marjoribauks 50 

Mrs.  Arthur 40 

Ombra 50 

Phffibe,  Junior 35 

Squire  Arden 50 

The  Curate  in  Charge 20 

The  Fugitives ...4to,  Paper  10 

The  Greatest  Heiress  in  England 4to,  Paper  15 

The  House  on  the  Moor 12mo  1  50 

The  Laird  of  Norlaw 12mo  1  50 

The  Last  of  the  Mortimers 12rao  1  50 

The  Minister's  Wife . 50 

The  Perpetual  Curate 50 

The  Primrose  Path 50 

The  Quiet  Heart 20 

The  Story  of  Valentine  and  his  Brother 50 

Within  the  Precincts 4to,  Paper  15 

Young  Musgrave 40 

PATRICK'S  (Mary)  Christine  Brownlee's  Ordeal 4to,  Paper  15 

Marjorie  Bruce's  Lovers 25 

Mr.  Leslie  of  Underwood 4to,  Paper  15 

PAYN'S  (James)  A  Beggar  on  Horseback 35 

A  Confidential  Agent 4to,  Paper  15 

A  Grape  from  a  Thorn 4to,  Paper  20 

A  Woman's  Vengeance* 35 

At  Her  Mercy 30 

Bred  in  the  Bone 40 

By  Proxy 35 

Carlyon's  Year 25 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


PBIOB 

PAYiVS  (James)  Cecil's  Tryst $  30 

For  Cash  Only 4to,  Paper  20 

Found  Dead 25 

From  Exile 4to,  Paper  15 

Gwendoline's  Harvest 25 

Halves 30 

High  Spirits 4to,  Paper  15 

Kit.  Illustrated 4to,  Paper  20 

Less  Black  than  We're  Painted 35 

Murphy's  Master 20 

One  of  the  Family 25 

The  Best  of  Husbands 25 

Under  One  Roof 4 to,  Paper  15 

Walter's  Word 50 

What  He  Cost  Her 40 

Won— Not  Wooed 35 

READE'S  Novels :  Household  Edition.     Ill'd 12ino,  per  vol.  1  00 


A  Simpleton  and  the  Wander 
ing  Heir. 

A  Terrible  Temptation. 
A  Woman-Hater. 
Foul  Play. 
Griffith  Gaunt. 
Hard  Cash. 


It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend. 
Love  me  Little,  Love  me  Long. 
Peg  Woffington,  Christie  John- 
stone,  &c. 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place. 
The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 
White  Lies. 


READE'S  (Charles)  A  Hero  and  a  Martyr 15 

A  Simpleton 35 

A  Terrible  Temptation.  Illustrated 40 

A  Woman-Hater.  Illustrated 60 

Foul  Play 3r» 

Griffith  Gaunt.  Illustrated 4o 

Hard  Cash.  Illustrated 50 

It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend 50 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long 35 

Multum  in  Parvo 4to,  Paper  15 

Peg  Woffington,  &c 50 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.  Illustrated 50 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth 50 

The  Jilt 32mo,  Paper  20 

The  Wandering  Heir.  Illustrated 25 

White  Lies 40 

RICE  &  BESANT'S  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men...4to,  Paper  20 

By  Celia's  Arbor.  Illustrated 8 vo,  Paper  50 

Shepherds  All  and  Maidens  Fair 32mo,  Paper  25 

"So  they  were  Married  !"  Illustrated 4to,  Paper  20 

Sweet  Nelly,  My  Heart's  Delight 4to,  Paper  10 

The  Captains'  Room 4to,  Paper  10 

The  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet 4to,  Paper  20 


10  Harper  <£  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


RICE  &  BESANT'S  The  Golden  Butterfly $  40 

'Twas  in  Trafalgar's  Bay 32mo,  Paper  20 

When  the  Ship  Comes  Home 32mo,  Paper  25 

ROBINSONS  (F.  W.)  A  Bridge  of  Glass 30 

A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Stones 30 

As  Long  as  She  Lived 50 

Carry's  Confession 50 

Christie's  Faith 12mo  1  75 

Coward  Conscience 4to,  Paper  15 

For  Her  Sake.     Illustrated 60 

Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune 40 

Little  Kate  Kirby.     Illustrated 50 

Mattie:  a  Stray 40 

No  Man's  Friend 50 

Othello  the  Second 32mo,  Paper  20 

Poor  Humanity 50 

Poor  Zeph! 32mo,  Paper  20 

Romance  on  Four  Wheels 15 

Second-Cousin  Sarah.     Illustrated 50 

Stern  Necessity 40 

The  Barmaid  at  Battleton 32mo,  Paper  15 

The  Black  Speck 4to,  Paper  10 

The  Hands  of  Justice 4to,  Paper  20 

The  Romance  of  a  Back  Street 32mo,  Paper  15 

True  to  Herself 50 

RUSSELL'S  (W.  Clarke)  Auld  Lang  Syne 4to,  Paper  10 

A  Sailor's  Sweetheart 4to,  Paper  15 

A  Sea  Queen 16mo,  Cloth  1  00 

4to,  Paper 

An  Ocean  Free  Lance 4to,  Paper  20 

My  Watch  Below 4to,  Paper  20 

The  "  Lady  Maud  :"  Schooner  Yacht.     HIM 4 to,  Paper  20 

Wreck  of  the  "Grosvenor" 30 

4to,  Paper  15 

SHERWOOD'S  (Mrs.  John)  A  Transplanted  Rose....l2mo,  Cloth  1  00 

TABOR'S  (Eliza)  Eglantine 40 

Hope  Meredith 

Jeanie's  Quiet  Life 30 

Little  Miss  Primrose 4to,  Paper  15 

Meta's  Faith 35 

St.  Olave's 40 

The  Blue  Ribbon 40 

The  Last  of  Her  Line 4to,  Paper  15 

THACKERAY'S  (Miss)  Bluebeard's  Keys 35 

Da  Capo 32mo,  Paper  20 

Miscellaneous  Works 90 

Miss  Angel.     Illustrated 50 

Miss  Williamson's  Divagations 4 to,  Paper  15 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels.  11 


THACKERAY'S  (Miss)  Old  Kensington.    Illustrated $  60 

Village  on  the  Cliff.     Illustrated 25 

THACKERAY'S  (W.  M.)  Denis  Duval.     Illustrated 25 

Henry  Esmond,  and  Lovel  the  Widower.     12  Illustrations..  60 

Henry  Esmond 50 

4to,  Paper  15 

Lovel  the  Widower 20 

Pendennis.     179  Illustrations 75 

The  Adventures  of  Philip.     64  Illustrations 60 

The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond 20 

The  Newcomes.     162  Illustrations 90 

The  Virginians.     150  Illustrations 90 

Vanity  Fair.     32  Illustrations 80 

THACKERAY'S  Works:  Household  Edition 12mo,pervol.   1  25 

Novels:  Vanity  Fair. — Pendennis. — The  Newcomes. — The 
Virginians. — Philip. — Esmond,  and  Lovel  the  Widower. 
6  vols.  Ill'd.  Miscellaneous:  Barry  Lyndon,  Hoggarty 
Diamond,  &c. — Paris  and  Irish  Sketch-Books,  &c. — Book 
of  Snobs,  Sketches,  &c. — Four  Georges,  English  Humorists, 
Roundabout  Papers,  &c. — Catharine,  &c.  5  vols.  Ill'd. 

TROLLOPE'S  (Anthony)  An  Eye  for  an  Eye 4to,  Paper  10 

Ayala's  Angel 4to,  Paper  20 

Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson 35 

Can  You  Forgive  Her  ?     Illustrated 80 

Castle  Richmond 12mo  1  50 

Cousin  Henry 4to,  Paper  10 

Doctor  Thorne 12mo  1  50 

Doctor  Wortle's  School 4 to,  Paper  15 

Framley  Parsonage .4to,  Paper  15 

Harry  Heathcote  of  Gangoil.     Illustrated 20 

He  Knew  He  was  Right.     Illustrated 80 

Is  He  Popenjoy? 4to,  Paper  15 

John  Caldigate 4to,  Paper  15 

Kept  in  the  Dark 4to,  Paper  15 

Lady  Anna 30 

Marion  Fay.     Illustrated 4to,  Paper  20 

Miss  Mackenzie 35 

Orley  Farm.     Illustrated 80 

PhhieasFinn.     Illustrated 75 

Phineas  Redux.     Illustrated 7*5 

Rachel  Ray 35 

Ralph  the  Heir.     Illustrated 75 

Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite.     Illustrated 35 

The  American  Senator 50 

The  Belton  Estate 35 

The  Bertrams 4to,  Paper  15 

The  Claverings.     Illustrated : 50 

The  Duke's  Children 4to,  Paper  20 


12  Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 

PBIOK 

TROLLOPE'S  (Anthony)  The  Eustace  Diamonds.     Illustrated.. $     80 

The  Fixed  Period 4to,  Paper       15 

The  Golden  Lion  of  Granpere.     Illustrated 40 

The  Lady  of  Launay 32mo,  Paper       20 

The  Last  Chronicle  "of  Barset.     Illustrated 90 

The  Prime  Minister 60 

The  Small  House  at  Allington.     Illustrated .  75 

The  Three  Clerks 12mo  1  50 

The  Vicar  of  Bullhampton.     Illustrated 80 

The  Warden,  and  Barchester  Towers.    In  one  volume 60 

The  Way  We  Live  Now.     Illustrated 90 

Thompson  Hall.     Illustrated 32mo,Paper       20 

Why  Frau  Frohman  Raised  her  Prices,  &c 4to,  Paper       10 

TROLLOPE'S  (T.  A.)  Lindisfarn  Chase 60 

A  Siren 40 

Durnton  Abbey 40 

Diamond  Cut  Diamond 12mo  1  25 

WALLACE'S  (Lew)  Ben-Hur 16mo,  Cloth  1  50 

WAVERLEY  NOVELS: 

THISTLE  EDITION  :  48  Vols.,  Green  Cloth,  with  2000 
Illustrations,  $1  00  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Gilt  Tops, 
$1  50  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Extra,  $2  25  per  vol. 

HOLTROOD  EDITION  :  48  Vols.,  Brown  Cloth,  with  2000 
Illustrations,  75  cents  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Gilt  Tops, 
$1  50  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Extra,  $2  25  per  vol. 

POPULAR  EDITION  :  24  Vols.  (two  vols.  in  one),  Green 
Cloth,  with  2000  Illustrations,  $1  25  per  vol. ;  Half  Moroc 
co,  $2  25  per  vol.  ;  Half  Morocco,  Extra,  $3  00  per  vol. 
Waverley ;  Guy  Mannering ;  The  Antiquary ;  Rob  Roy ; 
Old  Mortality ;  The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian ;  A  Legend  of 
Montrose;  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor ;  The  Black  Dwarf ; 
Ivanhoe ;  The  Monastery ;  The  Abbot ;  Kenilworth ;  The 
Pirate ;  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel ;  Peveril  of  the  Peak ; 
Quentin  Durward ;  St.  Ronan's  Well ;  Redgauntlet ;  The 
Betrothed;  The  Talisman;  Woodstock;  Chronicles  of  the 
Canongate,  The  Highland  Widow,  &c. ;  The  Fair  Maid  of 
Perth  ;  Anne  of  Geierstein ;  Count  Robert  of  Paris ;  Cas 
tle  Dangerous  ;  The  Surgeon's  Daughter ;  Glossary. 

WOOLSON'S  (C.  F.)  Anne.     Illustrated 16mo,  Cloth  1  25 

For  the  Major.     Illustrated 16mo,  Cloth 

YATES'S  (Edmund)  Black  Sheep 40 

Kissing  the  Rod 40 

Land  at  Last 40 

Wrecked  in  Port 35 

Dr.  Wainwright's  Patient 30 


HARPEK  &  BROTHERS  will  send  any  of  the  above  works  by  mail,  postage 
prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


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